


Scar Tissue

by Frankieteardrop



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Arguing, Drug Abuse, Fighting, M/M, Sexual Content, Substance Abuse, Very Very Strong Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankieteardrop/pseuds/Frankieteardrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edited and reposted (for the most part)</p><p>
  <i>While Till and Paul attempt to get on with their lives and repair an already damaged relationship, the band are also dealing with their bandmate who is suffering from a serious addiction.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 1999

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 05/03/16

              Two great shattered knees of land rise and open to make a crease between them which the autobahn runs through. Down the bitten inner flanks they travelled, where trees laden with thick vine grow upon the steep slopes above them. He’d never consciously considered himself a religious man, nor had he ever taken time to get down on his knees to the Great Being above and ask for blessings, but as they sped down the motorway, pushing ninety, he considered for a moment, praying for forgiveness of his sins, and asking their lord and savior to get him out of this car alive and in one piece,  
  
              “An even speed is what saves on fuel consumption, you see? I’m very into saving the planet right now. Greenhouse gasses and all that shit. Too much Carbon Dioxide in the atmosphere! The ice caps are melting! Got to try and stop the car from polluting the air too much, you see?”  
  
              His speech was far too fast, and while he was white-knuckle-gripping the wheel with one hand, he was gesticulating wildly as he spoke, at a frantic speed, with the other. It was terrifying. For the first time in his life, he realised now that Richard had lost it. Completely and utterly lost it. He had no concern for his safety, or Till’s, and he appeared to be reaching the point in his high where he’s hallucinating.  
  
              “Woah! Wait! Did you see that?!” Everything in the car lurched forward as Richard ducked down, tapping the breaks as he looked out around the top of the windscreen, attempting to see something up in the sky. “Did you see the size of those fucking birds?” He pressed heavily on the breaks again and Till felt every ounce of his blood hit the front of his body as he was pulled back into the seat by his seatbelt.  
  
              The hallucination were setting in good and proper, that much was clear, and as Till leaned over to see the speed dropping down a little over seventy, he still didn’t feel safe with this man driving; a man who couldn’t differentiate between real or imaginary. This was a life or death situation right here.  
  
              “Maybe we should stop soon, Richard. Get something to eat and then I’ll drive for a while?” He suggested, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Richard was still looking around for imaginary birds in the beaten landscape as the car swerved spectacularly, narrowly missing a heavy-goods lorry. “There’s nothing in the sky, Richard. Let’s swap. Come on, there’s a service station a bit further along.”  
  
              “No. I’m fine.” Richard’s voice took on an acrid tone, spitting his words in the direction of Till. He put his foot down and pushed the speed up once more. “Got to go fast, you see. We’re going to be late otherwise. And if we’re late then they won’t let us on because we won’t have time to do sound check, and time to fix up our costumes and stuff. You see Till, I’m trying to be good because I want that fucking Green Card! I want out of this shitty country, you see? I’m trying to move to New York! I’m so fucking close I can taste it. I’ve been living there for a good few months, right? They’ve got to let me in? Otherwise, how the fuck am I going to get on with my fucking life?” he started again, launching into his fifth speech within their journey about moving out of Germany and to New York. He swerved again, frowning nervously up at the sky. “Did you fucking see that?” he asked, looking back at Till, then to the road. “Anyway, it’s a new start. New beginning, Till, new everything! I mean, t’s even called _New fucking York!_ It’s got ‘New’ in the name. It’s so good they named it twice, right?!” This frantic, maniacal laugh left his lungs; too forced, frantic, panicked. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t Richard.  
  
               “I mean it’s got nothing to do with you guys. I love you guys, obviously. I mean, who put me back on my fucking feet when I came back from the West? It was you, Right? And like, I love Paul, and Olli, And Flake and Schneider, and Paul but I just need to get out of here, you see? I just want to get out of here and be gone!”  
  
               _If you don’t slow this fucking car down you’ll be gone to fucking kingdom come, and you’ll drag me with you, you psychopath!_ Till thought to himself, fingers digging into the edges of the leather seat, fearing for his life. He’d tuned out the frantic speech now. He wasn’t really listening to Richard’s monologue about how great things will be ‘in Amerika’. He was too focused on making sure that Richard didn’t crash into anything. Till had often thought about how he’d exit this world, and dying on the shitty autobahn in a fucking Honda, murdered by Richard and all his worldly highs, was not how he planned on going.  
  
               Suddenly the talking stopped, and the car was silent.  
  
               “Are you okay?” Till asked, seeing the colour drain from Richard’s face. His entire skin had taken a sullen turn, looking grey and battered. He was perfectly still, gripping with both hands at the wheel, eyes staring but unfocused; the lights were on but no one was home.  
  
              “I just feel a little light headed, is all.”  
  
               It was always painful to see Richard like this, so broken. He used to have so much life in him. He used to have this natural energy that made him so endearing. Till would often curse whoever it had been who’d introduced them all to drugs. Though, looking back, the eighties was a terrible time for drugs, even in The East. But he never remembered Richard ever taking an active interest in them; it wasn’t until they went on tour with Rammstein, that could have been the first time that he’d really noticed him taking drugs. He’d had good reason to no one doubted that. Richard’s experience of East Germany was difficult, and he was living with the consequences of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
  
               “Pull over, Scholle. Look. That service station is just up ahead. Pull in there and we’ll swap.”  
  
               Richard did as he was told, and pulled into the small service station. Till had become used to the quick change in Richard when he was high. He hit rock bottom in 30 seconds flat, after spending hours being high as a kite. One minute he could be chewing his ear off about something, _anything_ , talking at length and speed about whatever train of thought is plaguing his brain and then he’d drop to silence and fall unconscious within seconds. It was terrifying, really. Luckily his drug use hadn’t started affecting their performances on stage, or their ability to work as a group, and that, in Till’s mind, went part way to explaining why no one has intervened yet.  
  
               Till climbed out of the car, and walked around to the driver’s side, pulling the door open to see Richard climbing over to the passengers seat. It’s worrying that Till can see the bones protruding through Richard’s skin, his hips evident as his shirt rides up. His weight loss has been dramatic, and they know this is part way due to the drugs, but also because of terrible tour dieting. Those pallets of food they buy in are unappetising at best.  
  
               But Till believes he’s been picking up the pieces of Richard existence for too long now. As he drives, a lot safer now, down the autobahn between Leipzig and Berlin, he knows that because he’s been there for Richard during their tours, he’s now become Richard’s go-to-guy for putting him back together when he falls apart. All five of the members of Rammstein are aware of an issue with their sixth member’s drug dependence and the only one who appears to be doing anything is Till, or at least that’s how he feels. But now, having had his life put in danger on the eighth call out this week from Richard, Till decides he’s had enough. He doesn’t feel that the others are doing enough to help him deal with the mess that currently occupies the passenger’s seat. When Till looks over again, Richard is unconscious, curled up, knees drawn to his chest in the chair.  
  
               As they drove back to the venue, the phone in the centre console rang, Richard’s mobile phone. Till didn’t even look at it, just pressed the button and pressed it to his left ear, sandwiching it between his shoulder and his head. “Hallo?”  
  
               “ _You found him then?”_ Paul’s voice rang clear down the phone, like some guardian angel, guiding him back home. He thought he’d never hear Paul’s voice again only fifteen minutes before, so he was relieved, despite Paul’s bluntness.  
  
               “Yeah, I’ve got him here.”  
  
               “ _Where are you?”_ Paul asked, relief in his own voice as they spoke.  
  
               “We’re on the autobahn still, but we’re about half an hour away. I’ll call you when we’re outside the venue.”  
  
               “ _You shouldn’t be driving and talking on the phone you know. I know your autobahn driving. You shouldn’t be talking to me while driving!”_  
  
               “Paul. You called me! Are you kidding? I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about my driving, I’m fine.”  
  
               “ _They’re asking what state he’s in. Will he be able to perform tonight? Is he even still breathing?”_  
  
               “He’s asleep. He’ll be fine. I’ll call you when we’re outside the venue.”  
  
               “ _Also Nele’s mother called while you were away. She wanted to know when you plan on contacting home again? She said she has some pressing news.”_  
  
               “I don’t know. Make something up.”  
  
               “ _I’m not making anything up for you anymore. Call your daughter, for goodness sake!”_ Paul was taking on that holier-than-thou tone he got whenever he spoke of home. He didn’t understand the difference between them when it came to family matters. __  
  
               “I am driving! I’ll ca-…” The line went dead, and Till threw the phone down into the centre console again, driving on to get to the venue as fast as he could.  
  
               When they finally reach the venue, Till climbs out and pulls Richard from the car, carrying him over his shoulder into the green room. He’s decided in the short walk backstage that he doesn’t want to be this person anymore, living in a constant state of worry about a friend who couldn’t care one way or the other who’s looking after him, as long as there’s  _someone_ there. So why should it be Till anymore? Richard should be left to sober up alone and realise what an issue he’s causing; it’s what he deserves, right? If he wants to go out and get high (as they all have been known to do sometimes, but never to the extent that Richard does) then he should accept responsibility for his own safety, right? Till struggles to understand why Richard thinks it’s acceptable to get dangerously high and expect others to bring him back down to the ground safely. In Till’s opinion, it’s unacceptable.  
  
               “Where did you find him?” Paul asked, watching Till drop their guitarist down onto the sofa.  
  
               “He was at some art-squat in Leipzig… He didn’t remember how he got there but he was hallucinating on the drive back.” Till lied; it hadn't been an art-squat, that derelict building was definitely a crack den. He takes off his coat and begins to busy himself finding a beer and trying to take his mind off the mess he’s just pulled the guitarist out of.   
  
               “Does he need something to eat? Should we get him some food?” Olli asked, appearing through a door in the back of the dressing room.  
  
               “Just some water, you know he won’t eat.” Till’s voice is plain. There is no emotion there. He’s had enough of this.  
  
               “Right, someone grab the towels he had in his case… I’ll go and get the shower warmed up and we can try and wake him slowly and carefully there. We need to sober him up before the show…” Paul nodded, Oliver taking himself off to hunt through Richard’s things. “Till, can you help me get him to the bathroom?” Paul asked, turning to look at their singer.  
  
                 “No.” Till shook his head. “Let him wake up in a cold sweat. Let him feel the ache just once. I’m sick of babying him.” He growled, feeling the anger towards Richard he’d repressed for so long bubble to the surface. “Let him suffer. We need to stop doing this for him.”  
  
               “What do you mean ‘babying him’?” Paul frowned, looking over at Till, attempting to pull Richard up and out of the sofa. “Till he needs our help! We’ve got to get him into that shower otherwise he won’t be able to do the fucking show in a few hours!”  
  
               “Well maybe our helping him is just facilitating his fucking addiction, Paul. Maybe all we’re doing is making him think it’s okay to get into such a fucking mess because we’ll come running to his rescue and make everything better, eh? I’m sick of picking up his shit. I’m sick of pulling him out of fucking crack dens at one in the morning to make sure he’s on the fucking road on time. I’m so sick of his shit, Paul! I can’t fucking do it anymore!”  
  
               “You’re so full of shit, Till! I swear to God!” Paul shouted, dropping Richard back down into the chair, waking him. “If you gave yourself a fucking enema you’d disappear off the face of the fucking planet! You’re so full of shit” He pushed Till back, away from Richard and away from everyone.  
  
               “I don’t have to take this shit from you!” He growled, lighting up a cigarette, shaking his head.    
  
               “And you claim to care so fucking mu-…”  
  
               “Get fucked, Landers!”  
  
               “He needs our fucking help, Till! That’s what friends do, surprisingly enough, they _help one another_!” Paul was past angry now.  
  
               “I don’t care anymore. You’re just encouraging him to be a fucking idiot. Let him hurt himself once in a while, he’ll stop doing so many fucking drugs and getting completely wrecked! You’re molly-coddling him!” Till explained, looking over at Richard, who is slowly waking from his drug-induced coma on the sofa he was dropped onto.  
  
               “You’re unbelievable.” Paul said, picking up his coat, fiddling aggressively as if he was unsure what to do with himself, trying to decide desperately whether to stay or to go. “You’ve got no fucking idea, have you?”  
  
               “What? What don’t I know Paul, Please? Fucking enlighten me!” Till was goading him now. There was something destructive in him that wanted Paul to hit him. There was something inside him at this moment that would rather see the band break up so he never had to deal with this again, than sit here and fix his friend and get back on track as a band. He wanted the guitarist to give him a reason to walk out and not come back. He needed Paul to do this to him, but he knew he wouldn’t give Till the satisfaction. It would take more pushing on his part because Paul knows him too well.  
  
               “You’ve got no fucking idea how addiction works, do you?” He threw his coat back down, it landing over Richard. He pulled at it, tugging it over his body to take the chill off his skin.  
  
               “You’ve no idea! Have you seen him? Have you fucking watched him? He’s an addict, Till!” He was shouting, and drawing attention to all and sunder around him. “He’s a fucking addict and right now his brain is telling him he needs to get into this fucking state, and you, you’re not helping him!” Paul pushed Till back once more. “You’re quite fucking happy to let him burn himself out, and you actively put him in harms way. You’re a cunt, Till Lindemann, you know that? You’re a fucking cunt.”  
  
               Deep down Till knew Paul was right. He should care more. He was meant to be someone Richard could trust. But he was worn down, immune to Richard’s suffering now.  _He just doesn’t care anymore._  
  
               As Till looks over at Richard, he sees him fully awake, and he just knew he was eyeing up the small baggie of coke on the table near him, left by management who’d rather have a functioning addict than a sober one coming down to withdrawal. Paul was right, Richard was an addict, but Till just didn’t want to deal with him anymore.  
  
               “Well if he’s that fucking bad, and you’re that concerned, Paul, take him to rehab. I’m sure once he’s well and sober he’ll finally put your fucking dick in his mouth, seeing as I know that’s all you’re interested in! His great lord and fucking savior Paul Landers! Honestly, I’ve never seen another human pine over an addict quite like you do!”  
  
               Paul hit him then, and for someone so small and thin, he packs a punch. Till staggered back, feeling the blood rising to the surface of his lip, and as he stands straight once more, Paul hit him again, square in the nose. That sends Till reeling back, groaning as blood pours from his nostrils, the guitarist really giving him what he wanted  
  
               “That’s it!” He shouted, wiping angrily at his face, the taste of blood in his mouth, “I’m fucking done with this shit show! Fuck you, Paul. I’m so done with this fucking band!”  
  
               He stormed out, slamming any door in his path as he left the venue. He slammed himself into the car, driving back to the hotel to stay away from them. He was so tempted to pack his bags and go home to Schwerin. But instead, he sat in his hotel room and decided to brood over the events of the day. He can’t quite get the image of Richard in that place out of his head right now. He was stuck thinking about the wasted souls in that horrible place, and how Richard surely now must be at rock bottom, because if he falls any further, he’ll be dead. He sat down on his bed and looks around his room, picking up his copy of  _Paradise Lost._  He thumbed through to the page he’d left it at, and sighed, beginning to read, finding something ever relevant to the current events.  _“Me miserable! Which way shall I fly. Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.”_ He stopped and stared at the page for a while, thinking of Richard’s suffering. They were all aware of why Richard began taking drugs in the first place, but no one could deny that it was getting out of hand now. If they weren’t careful, their lead guitarist could end up dead of an overdose, and that would be it. There was no way they’d continue, Richard was, as much as they hate to admit it, irreplaceable. They needed him, and Till needed to care. This band was all he had now, so he had to pick himself up and begin to give a shit about Richard once again.  
  
               Till finally went back to the venue. Ultimately he felt guilty. He knew he couldn’t just leave them in the lurch, not that he didn’t want to, just to spite Paul. And he was certain they managed to get Richard into a state where he could play the show before going back to bed. He made a mental note to make sure Richard was locked into his room so he couldn’t go missing again that evening; he didn’t want to go running after him again. Even though he’d tried to stop caring for Richard, he couldn’t stop himself. He was always thinking of it, always trying to make sure Richard was safe. If he really thought about it, he really did care, but it was just getting hard to show it anymore.  
  
               The atmosphere at the venue was still tense when he got back, and Paul flat out refused to speak with him while they were getting ready. He was still angry that Paul had the audacity to criticise him; accuse him of not helping Richard. Paul couldn’t see that he was just damaging Richard further, and that Till’s approach of tough love might help more than Paul’s loving and caring approach as it appeared to be aiding Richard’s addiction further.  
  
               Throughout the show, Richard functioned relatively well, but Till was all too away of how high he really was; it was painfully obvious. Still, the crowd didn’t seem to notice. Richard needed drugs at this point to survive. It wasn’t just a case of going cold turkey for a few weeks to detox; there was something deeply psychological about this addiction. Plus, Richard on a come-down and withdrawal while attempting to perform might just be the kick he needed to end his career as a guitarist; they’d all seen the horror of Richard in withdrawal.  
  
               As they came off the stage and back into their little dressing room, after their encore, it was obvious that the tension between Till and Paul hadn’t dissipated at all. He watched Paul hand a bottle of water to Richard and congratulate him on how well he’d performed on stage that evening.  
  
               “Fucking congratulating him on making it through one show without collapsing or going fucking mad… Is this where we’re at now?”  
  
               It wasn’t missed by Paul, who rounded on Till too fast for his liking. “Excuse me?” He accused. IT was obvious that Paul was just as angry as Till was, still, from earlier in the day and he knew that it wouldn’t take long to build Paul back up into that anger once more. “What was that? Did you want a fucking pat on the back too? Or is that too much caring for you?”  
  
               “Oh, So we can congratulate a fucking addict on not being outwardly an addict. Is that what we’re doing? Because I know he’s very fucking high right now and the hallucinations will hit him in a second because he passes out. I also know that in the several pockets of that coat there’s enough cocaine to take down a small fucking elephant!” Till shouted, “You want to help him get better? Take all that fucking coke and wash it down the drain. Take it all away from him. Sober him the fuck up, for Christ’s sake! Look at him! He’s a fucking mess!”  
  
               “Can we stop talking about Richard like he isn’t here?” Olli interrupted, sitting himself down next to Richard, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to console him.  
  
               “Yeah, Till!” Paul spat, moving towards him. “Let’s remember that we’re dealing with a fucking human being here, not to mention our fucking friend, who we all want to help!” Paul explained, segregating Till from the rest of them, forcing him back towards the door. “Getting help takes time! Did you forget that while your head was shoved up your fucking arse? I’m so sick of your shit, Till, Honest to God!”  
  
               “My _shit?_ ” Till explained, unable to even pretend to be civil anymore. “So you’re telling me that I made him go to that fucking crack house and coke himself up to the eyeballs and then dragged him back here? I forced him into that AIDs-infested crack house only to drag him out of there to bring him back here? That shit he’s pulling on a daily fucking basis is okay but _my shit_ isn’t?” Till shouted.  
  
               “Good God Till! What huge fucking blind spot is stopping you from seeing that your actions are damaging to all of us, Till? You’re so fucking selfish!”  
  
               “What in the ever loving fuck are you talking about Paul? What actions am I committing that is damaging this band? More so than this dickhead here shoveling more cocaine up his nostrils than should be humanly possible? Please, fucking tell me!” Till gestured towards the younger guitarist who was visibly shrinking under his gaze, receding back into Olli. He tried to make himself as small as possible in order to save himself from Till’s wrath.  
  
               “You continually being down his throat is not going to help him get better! He needs our fucking help Till! We can’t expect him to go cold turkey because it won’t fucking work! You know that, he knows that, we all fucking know it so why is it so difficult for you to understand?!” Paul shouted.  
  
               “Stop it! Both of you! Just shut up!” Oliver stepped between them, trying to keep Paul away from him, to stop another fight errupting.  
  
               “No! Let me fucking finish!” Paul bellowed, “You swan in here, and you think you’ve saved his fucking life by getting him out of these places, but you haven’t. You’ve done fuck all Till. All you do is storm around here, get frustrated at him, get frustrated and angry at us, and all you’ve actually done is picked him up. You’re not there in the middle of the fucking night making sure he doesn’t die! You’re not the one here trying to make sure he’s ready to get on that stage, and that when he gets off this stage that he can make it back to whatever hotel we’re staying in!” Paul shouted, and he was getting angrier now. “You just hand him over and expect everyone to congratulate you but you’ve done nothing, Till! You’ve done nothing to help him!”  
  
               Till brow furrowed so far together that the bridge of his nose has almost disappeared altogether. “You’re mothering him, Paul. Exactly the same way that Aljoscha did to you, except you’re allowing him to continue with this fucking addiction. You’re not helping him at all, you’re hindering him getting better! I’m going home. I’m fucking done here! Fuck you, Paul.”  
  
               He took that as his cue to leave, and this time he has no intention of coming back. He was livid. How dare Paul address him like that, put all this blame onto him as if he’s the one splitting this band at the seams. He stormed down the corridor, feeling freedom coming closer and closer.  
  
               “ _Wohin gehst du_?” Schneider called from somewhere behind him, and he could hear footsteps following but he wouldn’t turn back. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of stopping him. Fuck them all.  
  
               He got back to the hotel and began packing. _Fuck them and fuck the rest of this fucking tour._ He violently shoved his possessions into a duffle bag, ready to book the next flight back to Schwerin. He was ready to leave them for good now. He didn’t want to deal with their shit anymore.  
  
               “ _Oliver leave me the fuck alone and give me the key! I’m not fucking finished with him.”_  
  
                There was no rest for the wicked, hearing Paul outside his hotel room door, arguing with Oliver now to confront Till further.  
  
               “ _Fuck you I’m going in. I’m fucking done with his shit. He needs to hear it!”_  
  
               He doesn’t wait for Paul to open the door but pulls it open for him, staring at the smaller man before him. He stops for a moment, staring up at the singing as if he was attempting to remember exactly what it was that he’d come to speak to him about.  
  
               “Can I help you? Are you fucking lost?” Till growled, going back to shoving the last few things, books and a packet of cigarettes, into his bag before zipping it up.  
  
               “Are you seriously fucking leaving?” Paul asked, standing in front of the door, closing it behind him.  
  
               “I’m going home Paul. I’m fucking tired. I’m done with this band’s shit. I can’t deal with it anymore.”  
  
               “Really? You’re fucking giving up on us? You’re such a dick, Till!” Paul pushed him back into the room, taking his bag from his hand, throwing it to the ground. “You’re going no where! You’re not fucking this up for us!” It’s such a rare sight to see Paul so angry. “You’re not fucking leaving us!”  
  
               “I’m not being in this band with  _him_ any longer. Fuck him. If you knew what was good for your Paul you’d fucking leave too!”  
  
               “You’re such an egotistical cunt!” Paul was hysterical, pushing Till once more, getting himself closer to the singer. “Fuck you!” He pushed once more.  
  
              “Why do you want me here so badly? I hear you the other fucking day talking about other fucking singers! I heard you and Flake discussing it so why do you want me here so badly?!” Till stood his ground, staring at the shorter man, pressing for an answer, but there was nothing; only silence. “I thought so. I’m going home. I’m done with this band.” Till said, pushing past Paul. He picked up his bag and threw on his coat, before reaching for the door.  
  
               “Till. Stop it.” Paul’s voice was immediately different; small and pleading, helpless. “Just… Stop it.” He moved forward, wrapping his arms around Till’s middle, pressing his face into the singer’s chest. “Please. Just fucking stop it, okay?” He could feel Paul’s tears soaking through his shirt, and he knew they were more from anger than from sadness. “Just stop being such a cunt, please? We need your help.”  
  
               “Paul I don’t want to help him.” Till said as calmly as he could.  
  
               “Yes you fucking do!” Paul hit him in the chest then, before moving forward once more. “Stop being a fucking moron! You want to be a part of this band and you want to help him! Stop being a dick about it! We can do this!”  
  
               “If you stopped being such a fucking mother to him he might get the message and clean up his fucking act!” The anger between them began to rise once more, and Paul punched Till for the third time that day, bloodying his nose again. He hit him again, and again, and again, the frustration of the arguments over the last few days spilling out all at once, and now there was no one else to stop them from killing one another.  
  
               “I swear to God stop fucking hitting me!” Till shouted, picking the smaller man up around the waist before plunging him to the bed, pinning him down. “Stop fucking hitting me!” Till hissed, looking down at Paul, both breathing heavyily, Paul unable to move for the weight of the singer holding him in place. “What do you fucking want from me, Paul? What the fuck do you want me to do?”  
  
               There was silence for a moment, the two stared at one another, Till shifting his weight to push harder on Paul’s wrists. “What do you want from me, Paul?” Till asked, more calmly this time, leaning down close to the smaller man, threateningly, challenging Paul to answer him. The guitarist writhed a little more, attempting to free himself but he couldn’t, Till was far stronger than he and too heavy to shift easily. The tension in the room so thick neither of them could breathe. Paul craned his neck up, and before Till could really register what was happening, Paul pushed an aggressive, vicious kiss against the singer’s lips.  
  
               Till couldn’t help himself then, the aggression in the both of them too much that this tension needs to be released. There was no wasting time, no pleasantries, Till sat up on Paul’s hips and moved himself to stand, Paul following as the two ripped their clothes from each other. When they kiss again, it was rough, aggressive. There was no affection there, only base need, the animalistic need to fuck.   As Paul pulled his t-shirt up over his head, the neck of the shirt gets caught on his face, leaving only his lips showing. Till stopped him, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips, Paul’s arms still raised above his head, Till’s hands feeling their way down the sides of his body. He let out a small whimper, and continued to tug the shirt from his face, but was stopped once more as Till pushed him back to the bed, crawling on top of him.  
  
               “Till!” Paul groaned, trying to free himself from his shirt as Till bit and sucked at the smaller man’s chest, teeth nipping at the pale skin to leave little bruises in their wake. He finally freed himself, his hands digging into Till’s hair to yank the singer’s head harshly up to meet his lips. Till sat up to tear the rest of Paul’s clothes from him, the smaller man helping get the singer out of his own.  
  
               Soon, they were both naked and panting. Till spat into his hand, spreading Paul’s thighs before sinking his fingers in. While they were both angry and full of sexual tension, Till still wouldn’t hurt him. He moved slowly, Paul reaching to grip at Till’s arm, groaning softly. “Fucking hell, hurry up.” He groaned, gasping as Till slid another finger into the smaller man.  
  
               “ _Patience! Heiko!”_ Till hissed, curling his fingers inside the smaller man, making sure he was really ready. His skin was burning up, his cheeks taking a slight pink tinge, embarrassed from being so open and exposed, and enjoying it so much. Till wanted to drag this out. He wanted to make the smaller man whine and beg for him but he was already so tense, both of them were.  
  
               “Jesus Christ, Please Till.” The smaller man groaned, and Till did as he was asked, wasting no time in sinking in, hips pressed firmly against Paul’s. The guitarist let out a cry, fingers digging hard into Till’s skin, leaving little pink welts from the pressure. Till forced himself into the other again, hard and fast. Paul let out a cry like a wounded animal that caused Till's heart to leap, but caused him to slow. He looked down at the face before him; brow furrowed in concentrated pleasure, teeth biting down on lips so hard they threatened to break the skin. The singer leaned down and kissed the smaller man. Paul was trembling under him, his skin covered in a sheet of light sweat, teeth gritting to take that feeling pulsing through him. Till moved quickly; they both needed this. He picked up his pace, bringing them both what they needed, as he was trying to gauge whether his reaction was pleasure or pain. He took hold of Paul’s erection and began moving his hand in time with his hips as the other man’s hand seemed otherwise occupied with the tops of Till's arms. He began rhythmically moving his fist and the noises falling from Paul’s mouth were nothing human. He could feel the end nearing, feeling Paul’s body reacting. He scrunched his eyes closed and arched his back as Paul pushed him over the edge, and left them both a hot, sticky mess, and he let himself climax.  
  
               The two of them lay there for a while; a hot, sticky, sweaty mess, wrapped around one another, trying to catch their breath. Till eased away carefully, moving to lie on the bed next to Paul.  
  
               “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Till said softly, breaking the silence, looking over at the other. His eyes were still closed, and his body still appeared tense.  
  
               “No, no… I’m okay.” He said finally, slowly opening his eyes. “I’m fine.”  
  
               “Are you sure? Stay still for a moment… Just… Stay here.” Till took hold of Paul’s hand, holding it gently. “I’ll stay, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
               Paul looked over at the singer, a frown on his face, but he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the singer’s forehead. “We still have so much to sort out, Till. I can’t do it without you.”  
  
               “Well we need to try a different approach with Richard, Paul. Caring and loving isn’t working, clearly, otherwise he’d be clean by now.” Till explained calmly, and he felt the tension in Paul’s body rise up again. “No, stop… Listen,” He said, moving to turn onto his side, “Listen… I know you can’t do that. I know you want to treat him nicely. But just, let him get lost once. Let him call us, and I’ll tell him we can’t help, that we’re stuck elsewhere, that he needs to sort himself out, okay?” Till explained, “I know you don’t want to, but clearly being nice isn’t working so we’ve got to try something else…”  
  
               “Till,” Paul stopped, “He needs someone to care…”  
  
                “I’m not saying we don’t care, I’m saying we just try something else! If you’d stop trying to be his mother then maybe he’d start taking responsibility for his fucking actions!”  
  
               “For fuck sake Till,” Paul growled, getting to his feet. He began to dress himself, shoving his clothes on.  
  
               “Where are you going?” Till asked, sitting up.  
  
               “You’re a real cunt, you know that?” Paul shook his head before leaving, slamming the door behind him.


	2. July 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited 07/05/16.

              When Richard began speaking to him, Till was sat in the dressing room with the headphones of his Walkman shoved deep into his ears, blocking out as much outside noise as he possibly could. His earphones poured out the sounds of Rossini’s _The Thieving Magpie,_ which he was trialing for a ‘getting-ready-for-a-show’ playlist he wanted to prepare himself. He’d not so much heard Richard take a seat and begin talking, as much as he’d felt the seat next to him depress under the weight of _something,_ forcing him to open his eyes and look at the person sitting next to him.  
  
              “What did you say?” he asked, pulling one of his earphones from his head, shifting in his seat to get into a better position to see Richard.  
  
              “I asked what you’re listening to?” Richard asked again, chewing on the inside of his lips. He was obviously nervous, and with good reason. Till had really gone off at him through Paul a week ago and he’d not spoken to either of them really since that evening. But he never really understood why Richard acted this way, and why Richard was still so nervous around him.  
  
              “ _The Thieving Magpie_ … Flake gave it to me” Till answered, looking back down at his walk-man to press pause, as Claudio Abbado brought the London Symphony Orchestra to some beautiful musical crescendo. “I think we might take a short break once this tour is over. Give ourselves a change to recuperate, you know?” Till didn’t wait for another question from Richard, just stared at him, speaking very calmly. He reached forward lazily to pick up the beer he’d been nursing for the last ten minutes. There wasn’t much left, but the action is enough to draw Richard’s attention to the venue-courtesy drugs on the table, which he instantly regrets not moving.  
  
               “I’m fine, Till.” Richard said, his attitude turning slightly. He glared at him, speaking with a little more confidence as he reached forward for the drugs available to them.  
  
              He ignored Till, moving to set out large white lines on the glass table top before them. Till was well aware that he should probably stop Richard, be he also knows it’ll cause until arguments between just about everyone. But he really should stop him; he should really be stopping his friend from doing any more drugs.  
  
              “Richard, do you think you should be doing that right before the show?” He asked calmly, putting his eyes on the bottle in his hands, fiddling and picking at the label to appear as non-confrontational as he possibly could.  
  
              “What?”  
  
              “Right before the show? Should you really be doing that?” he repeated, rearranging his question to appear more casual than accusative.  
  
              “Why does it matter?” Richard’s whole body seethed an attitude of confrontation. “It helps me to focus. It’s not going to affect the show, is it?” He turned his back on the singer and carried on with what he was doing. He was growing to be terrifyingly thin and it was worrying Till too much. The person they all saw now was not the Richard they once knew. This man was not the blonde, dreaded East German punk they all remembered thrashing around on his guitar. This was not the young man who had pressured them to join him in starting something great. This was no their friend anymore. Till didn’t recognize this person, volatile and aggressive, and it had been one of the most frightening realisations he’d come to in a long time.  
  
              He had grown haggard, long lines of exhaustion marring his otherwise beautiful face. But it wasn’t exactly exhaustion in the sense that everyone was exhausted. This was not a healthy exhaustion; it came from pushing his body to its absolute limit. They’d all watched their friend descend into this addiction; he wasn’t himself anymore, becoming arrogantly confident when high, not exactly a pleasant person to be around. But he could see, if he really looked hard enough, that man he’d met in some terrible little bar in Schwerin in there. Maybe that had been the reason he’d not given up on him yet.  
  
              If he really thought, he couldn’t even really remember what it had been that had drawn him to Richard in the first place. He just liked hearing him talk, which he used to do a lot. It was just his voice, at first, ever so different to the other men that gathered around them; softer, more eloquent, emphasizing the off-words in sentences to draw your attention back in. If there had been some sort of logical explanation for it, Till would say that Richard’s voice gave him a level of aural pleasure he’d never expected. And there was nothing sexual or romantic about it, he just enjoyed listening to someone speak so enthusiastically about their interests for extended periods of time. Till listened far more than he spoke, but Richard could speak about his interests (mainly music) for as long as you wanted to listen.  
  
               It could have easily been Richard who he’d fallen in love with though. In the early days, they’d spent a lot of time together in Schwerin, Richard hanging around Till’s studio and seeing one another at the bars and pubs around town. Richard had even lived with Till for a little while, but nothing had ever come to fruition, because he’d met Paul.  
  
              Paul had been entirely different in every way, shape and form to Richard. He’d never really experienced the feelings he harbored for Paul, and that was that he was wholly in love with the smaller man. He’d captured him, in the mid-eighties and held on for dear life, never quite letting him go, always keeping him on the hook.  
  
              But Paul was angry with Till for the way he’d treated Richard, which Till thought was definitely unjustified anger. He’d been the one driving to the dirty, dank, disgusting hovels that Richard got himself into and dragged him away and brought him back to safety and back to reality. And while Paul was right, Till hadn’t been the kindest or most understanding of Richard’s addiction, he was irritated by Paul more than anything in the world. But, he couldn’t deny that he loved him; that much was true.  
  
              His attention turned back to Richard in the seat next to him. From his hips to his chest, his bones protruded through the skin so hardly it was like looking at a victim of starvation, and they pushed harder against his skin as he leaned forward to snort the lines he’s set out for himself. There was a large gash in his skin on his back, that Till reached out to run his fingers over the broken skin. He’d probably fallen onto a piece of glass or something of the sort. But what was really worrying Till was that Richard’s clothes were hanging loose now about his body, his trousers slipping slightly too much, extra holes being poked in his belt, his jacket not fitting _quite_ right. His skin is icy to the touch, despite the heating being on in the venue.  
  
              “Aren’t you cold?” Till questioned, gently running his hand over the exposed skin. He hoped that his question would come across more concerned than anything; a lifeline of friendship being thrown in Richard’s direction.  
  
              “A little, yeah. But it’s nothing.” His skin is clammy, cold and pallid. This wasn’t right. He leant forward to snort another line and Till decided he couldn’t watch anymore. He tried, feebly, and decided he didn’t want to watch his friend destroy himself. He picked up Richard’s coat the wrapped it around his friend’s shoulders before getting to his feet. As he left, he caught sight of Paul, shook his head and went out into the darkness.  
  
              Till took a moment to himself and stood in the darkness, the silence feeling very final, despite all the noise behind him. From inside, he could hear the support band starting up, and he knew he had about fifteen minutes before he needed to take himself back inside and in the direction of the stage to prepare for their show that evening. He pulled the packet of Marlboros out of his pocket, lighting one. He let the smoke gather around him. He could feel the eyes of another boring into him, sighing, as his moment is broken.  
  
              “Why didn’t you stop him, Till?” Paul’s voice was calm and quiet, making himself known as he stopped forward in the cold air. “Why did you let him take that stuff? We’re supposed to be helping him stop, Till. Come on.”  
  
              “Wait, has something happened to him?” He took another pull on the cigarette, offering it to Paul.  
  
              “No, but now he’s high, and who know what’ll happen.” He took the cigarette from Till, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
              “Well, we all had to stop doing drugs as a way to stop him being tempted by us. We called all the venues and told them to stop providing that shit for us, which hasn’t worked, clearly. And even if they did stop, he’d still find a way because he’s an addict.” Till explained, leaning against the wall behind him. “We aren’t going to stop him. If we tell him not to in front of us, he’ll just go odd and do it in private, and you know as well as I do what that means…” He sighed, rubbing at his face. “Some of the places I’ve picked him up from… I’d rather him he here, with us to watch over him, than in those places where no one gives a fuck.”  
  
              Paul sighed, running his hands through his hair. He’s in full costume for tonight, and looked vaguely threatening, but Till sees through it and knows what he’s really feeling. “I just hate seeing him do it, that’s all.”  
  
              Till moved forward and wrapped his arms around Paul, letting him rest his head against his chest. Paul’s skin was almost as cold as Richards, and Till pulled him in closer, gently running his hands up and down Paul’s back.  
  
              “I never understood how you’re always so warm.” Paul said softly, voice muffled by the embrace, and Till knew the change in topic was to take his mind off Richard, but he didn’t mind. It made him smile.  
  
              “It’s all those years of swimming in the frozen lakes at home during the winter. They’re colder than it is now. I just got used to making my body warm up faster.”  
  
              They stood in silence for a while, just holding one another. There was something beautifully reassuring about their embrace. They’re silent, and warm in their touch, and it feels like they’re finally falling back into place.  
  
              “I always found the sound of your heart beating in your chest so reassuring…” Paul said quietly, pressing himself closer to Till’s body, hands gripping at the back of his shirt.  
  
              “Oh Paul, you soppy git.” Till laughed, “Stop it.” He smiled, and they slowly let each other go, leaning back against the wall to smoke.  
  
              “I’m just not sure I can deal with watching him like this anymore.” Paul whispered, and Till fully understood his frustration. They were all exhausted, and after the last few weeks watching Richard’s addiction seem to peak at its worst, on top of their non-stop concerts for three weeks straight. They were all beginning to grate on one another now, and it was getting difficult to distinguish between genuinely hurt feelings and battered nerves.  
  
              “Well, once we’re finished touring, we can check him into a rehab centre and get him the help he needs…”  
  
              “Yeah but I just don’t understand why he do-…”  
  
              “Something’s wrong with Richard, you’ve got to come back now.” Schneider interrupted them, his hand clasping Till’s shoulder tightly.  
  
              The panic was evident on Paul’s face then, and so was the guilt.  
  
              “We should never have left him alone.” Paul growled. The short walk to the green room felt like miles, and when they arrived, the state of Richard sent Paul into overdrive. “What happened, Richard? What’s the matter?” he asked, sitting himself down next to the younger man.  
  
              “I just feel dizzy, really dizzy.” Richard muttered, “And my chest hurts, but I’ll be okay in a minute. I promise.” He looked up at them and managed a smile but the skin on his face had turned a ghostly white, even under all the stage make up.  
  
              “We’ve got to get a doctor.”  
  
              “No. For goodness sake I’m fine. Just give me a minute! Fucking hell!” he slapped Paul’s hands aware from him and hunched forward over his knees, head in his hands trying to regain some composure. Paul sat silently watching his friend, his eyes never moving.  
  
              Till lowered himself into the sofa next to Richard and gently ran his hand over the other’s back in soothing circles. He looked over at Paul, who was positively stoic, staring down at their friend as he attempted to recover. He slowly passed him a bottle of water and they waited.  
  
              He managed the shot before the show, and managed to power through, looking every bit his normal self as he concentrated and focused on getting the show completed. But Richard appeared to be the only one focused on their audience. The rest of them seemed to be casting too many glances at their lead guitarist and at each other. They watched him constantly. They were all worried he’d collapse at any moment. There was no doubt in Till’s mind that Richard’s blood pressure was too high and he was at risk of a heart attack at any minute. It was obvious from looking at Richard that his body was at the end of its tether.  
  
              When they show ended, they didn’t speak to one another. The drive back to the hotel wasn’t the usual chatty-spectacular, it was hard silence, and it was deafening. Richard stood in front of them in the elevator up to their rooms; his broad shoulders seemed to have shrunk, his form looking withered. He never speaks. His high must have been wearing off, as he went straight for the bathroom. The door slammed and the shower started and Till collapsed into the bed. The exhaustion was terrible. They were all exhausted. They all just needed this tour to be over.  
  
              As Richard reentered the room, Till peeled open an eye to look over him. For someone who had been so muscular, Richard seemed to be wasting away before their very eyes. He most definitely wasn’t eating properly; he was so thin and his skin seemed to hang from his bones, rather than wrap around taut muscle.  
  
               “Are you okay?” He asked.  
  
               “No.” Richard replied.  
  
               “You should get some sleep.”  
  
               “I’m going to.”  
  
               “Good,” Till said softly. “I’m concerned about you, that’s all.”  
  
              “I know. I just, you know, I want to say thank you. I know I can be quite unappreciative of you doing this shit for me but I mean it, thank you.” He said quietly.  
  
               Till got to his feet and walked forward, pulling the other into a tight hug. “It’s okay. You don’t have to thank me. I know you’d do the same if the tables were turned.”  
  
               “I wouldn’t be so sure. We all know how unreliable I’m getting recently. I have been trying though, I swear.” He laughed, “But anyway, I’m going to sit with Paul for a little while and I’ll be back in about half an hour, okay?” he explained, getting himself dressed into something warm. “I’ll be back soon.” He said, pulling his hood up onto his head.  
  
               Till watched him go, and decided to shower and get himself more comfortable and sleep. Richard would be back. It felt as though he’s made somewhat of a break through, showing his appreciation. That person they’d first met was still in there somewhere. They’d all just have to uncover it somehow.  
  


* * *

  
               He woke to the drone of an airplane engine flying overhead and the feeling of something warm dripping onto his chin. He lifted his hand to feel his face. Upon further inspection the liquid on his chin is not something that has come from his mouth and he wrenched his eyes open in panic. Richard knelt over him on the bed, his nose dripping.  
  
              “Something’s wrong.” He explained, staring down at Till. “It’s never bled before.”  
  
              “Richard, what have you taken?” Till asked, sitting up. His heart beat far too fast at this moment, and his brain ran into overdrive. He should never have trusted Richard to go to Paul. He knew he was lying.  
  
              “I c-can’t… I don’t remember?” Richard frowned then, his voice dazed. Till took a proper look at him, examining his face. He obviously hadn’t been hit in the face so this was purely down to the drugs he’d been taking. There was a foul mixture of blood, snot and spit on his shirt, having dripped from his face. But Richard was Catatonic. “I just did a little.” He said softly, almost in a whisper.  
  
              “We need to go to the hospital now. Richard, Now.”  
  
              “No, no. It’s okay, really. I feel fine.”  
  
              “Richard. You’re going to the fucking hospital. Stay there, I’m going to get Paul.” He got to his feet, pulling a pair of jeans on as he went, swinging the door open. He ran as fast as he could down the corridor to Paul, hammering on the door, not stopping until there was an answer.  
  
              “What the fuck, Till! It’s five in the fucking morning!”  
  
              “It’s Richard. We’ve got to go. Get Oliver and the others; tell them we need to go. I’m calling an ambulance.  
  
              Paul didn’t ask any further questions. He turned back into the room and pulled on some clothes. He goes to know on the doors of Flake and Schneider as Olli emerges from the darkness, having overheard. He escorts Till back to their room and as they look around, Richard has disappeared.  
  
              “Scholle?” Oliver calls out, noticing that the curtains around the door to the balcony were billowing, the noise of a plane passing overhead sounds louder than it should.  
  
              “Scheiße,” Till whispered to himself, rushing the door in panic. What if he’d thrown himself over the balcony? They’re so high up! What if he’d died?  
  
              They both sigh in relief, seeing Richard sitting in a chair, eyes closed as the sun casts it’s light over him, the warmth **[add more description here]**  
  
              “Scholle?” There was no response. “Are you okay?” He still didn’t respond to Till.  
  
              “Scholle?” Oliver moved forward, kneeling in front of Richard. “Are you alright?”  
  
              “No.” Richard replied.  
  
              “What’s the matter?” Olli asked, his voice incredibly quiet, soft, gently placing his hand on Richard’s knee.  
  
              “Everything is hurting. My head is hurting. My mouth is hurting. My nose hurts. My eyes ache. My hands are sore.” He finally looked up at Oliver, still covered in blood. “I think I’ve fucked up.”  
  
              Till was already on the phone for an ambulance, explaining that they thought their had overdosed on possibly cocaine and possibly more and needed immediate medical assistance. He explained that he was conscious but unresponsive, but there was a lot of blood on him, all of his own they suspected. He told the receiver that his friend’s pulse was too high and his heart was racing.  
  
               Management was going to kill them. The medical bills were going to be astronomical.  
  
              He hung up the phone and took a seat next to Richard, waiting. The panic had pushed them into a serene and terrifying level of calmness  
  
              “I can feel it coming.” Richard said and began rubbing his stomach. There wasn’t much that they could do to stop it. Oliver immediately got out of the way, making sure he was out of the firing line as Richard hunched forward, head between his knees, and vomited. Till rubbed his hand over Richard’s back, trying to ease some of the aches in his friend’s body.  
  
              “Fucking hell Richard.” Oliver groaned, having gone green in the face. It was obvious Richard hadn’t eaten anything substantial in a few days, and there was nothing in his system but drugs and alcohol. This only added to their worry, and only served to add to their guilt.  
  
              “We should have been watching him.” Till said, his voice sober. “Why didn’t we see this coming?”  
  
              “There’s no time for that,” Paul’s voice came through the door as he pushed the curtains wide open. “Oliver, go. It’s okay. We’ve got this.” He said softly, moving forward. “Richard, the paramedics are here but you need to walk to the door as they can’t get the wheel chair around the bed. Can you do that for me?” Paul’s brow was furrowed deep on his face as he took ahold of Richard’s vomit covered hands. “Come on, let’s try to stand up, okay?”  
  
              Richard stood. He wobbled. He sat back down and stared at the floor. He took a few deep, sharp breaths.  
  
              “You’ll be okay.” Paul spoke again, helping Richard back to his feet, keeping Richard’s hand tightly held in his own. “Just to the door. They’ve got a chair to take you down to the ambulance.” Richard nodded and he carefully, slowly wobbled his way to the door of the room.  
  
              At that point, Richard’s care was out of their hands. Till looked at Paul and he could see tears the smaller man was fighting to hold back. “Someone should go with him.” Paul said quietly.

               “You go.” Till’s voice was soft. “I’ll clean up here and I’ll meet you there, okay?”

               Paul nodded, but was uncharacteristically silent.  
  
               “Hey, Paul.” Till said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder before he could leave. “He’ll be okay. We’re going to get him proper help, okay? He’ll be fine.”

               He didn’t reply, he just jogged down the hall to catch up with the paramedics. Oliver soon caught Till and rested his hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go. They’ve got a taxi coming for us downstairs to take us to the hospital. Flake and Schneider are going to stay here with management and try to get in touch with his family.” Till nodded and the two headed to the hotel lobby to get to the hospital.

               When they arrived at the hospital, Paul was waiting at the front door to greet them. “They made me leave him alone with them so we can go and see him shortly once they’ve done some stuff to him.” Paul was shaking. He was pale and looked exhausted. “What happened?” He asked.  
  
               “He told me before we went to bed that he was coming to spend some time with you before going to sleep, so I went to have a shower, and he wasn’t back yet but I thought he was with you.”  
  
               “He didn’t come to us…” Oliver said softly, chewing on his lip. “He must have gone t-…” He stops himself. “Jesus Christ.”  
  
               They took a seat and waited, Oliver pacing up and down silently, only the sound of his boots on the floor the only noise to break the silence. Soon enough a doctor came to see them in the waiting room where they were sitting.  
  
               “How is he?” Till asked, sitting up. They all feel a lot more alert then.  
  
               “It’s not good.” She began, and she took a seat in front of them after closing the door. “My name is Doctor Jennifer Fray, I’m going to be looking over him while he’s here. Which one of you is his brother?”  
  
               “I am.” Paul said, biting his lip. “They’re our friends. For support.”  
  
               “Okay, well are you okay with them hearing how Richard is doing?”

               “It’s fine. Whatever you have to say to me they can hear.” Paul attempted to smile, but the usual brightness it brought his face was missing. It was insincere. He was riddled with worry, and the tension was thrumming through him; they all were. Till could feel it as he sat next to him, and took hold of his hand as a show of physical support.  
  
               “Okay. Well, there’s some pretty nasty internal damage to his respiratory system.” She explained, “It’s obvious just from looking at him that he’s running on a string of hard drugs and nothing else. There’s signs of damage to the veins in his right arm where he has attempted to inject drugs into his syst-…”  
  
               “Richard’s never injected before.” Paul interrupted, looking up at Till, then to Oliver. “Have you ever seen him inject? Or any bruises from needles?”

               “No…” they both replied, and Paul slumped back in the chair. “Shit. We’ve got to cancel this tour.”  
  
               “Well, let me explain the rest of our findings to you.” She said softly, her voice calm. It was obvious she understood the severity of the situation in their response and tried to keep tempers and emotions at bay. “We’ve sent him for a full body scan to assess the damage internally. He’s incredibly underweight, and he must be checked into a rehab program now, or there is a strong chance he’ll be dead in a month.”

               That hit them like a ton of bricks to the face. They had no idea it was that bad, how severe Richard’s addiction had become. Paul squeezed Till’s hand tighter.  
  
               “We’ve got to complete this tour…” Oliver said, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his fists.  
  
               “We can’t… We’re going to have to cancel it…” Paul looked up at the taller man, then to Till. “He’ll be mad, but he can’t go on. There’s too much temptation.”

               Dr Fray got to her feet and straightened her jacket. “I’m going to check on the progress of his scans and I’ll be back to let you know when you can come and see him, okay?”  
  
               The three nodded, thanking her, and they sat back, Paul looked absolutely stumped.  
  
               “Oh my god.” Oliver stated, all three looking up as Flake and Schneider appeared in the doorway. It was obvious by the look on their faces that they knew it was bad already. “How are we going to do this? He’s not going to be strong enough to do three more shows… What’re we going to do?”  
  
               “I have no idea…” Till groaned, “We could somehow get venues to make sure there was nothing but water? And we could keep an eye on him until we get back to Germany and can check him into a rehab?”  
  
               “Would that work though?” Schneider stopped, looking down at his fingers. “He’d find a way to get high, right?”

               “We’ll have to get creative with stopping him leaving our sight until we get home.” Flake offered, smiling weakly. “We can take it in turns, and stay with him after the shows. It’s only three more shows, right?”

               “You’re right. We can do this.” Paul smiled, getting to his feet. “Can one of you call his wife? I don’t think I’ve got the energy. I need to smoke.” Schneider nodded and wandered off to make the call.  
  
               “I’ll come with you to smoke.” Till said, following the smaller man down to the street, both lighting up. Till watched Paul a while, and could see he was struggling to hold back his tears. Shit had gotten serious now. This was no longer a problem that the five of them could ignore. Richard had put himself in hospital for the first time in four years. They had to sort this.  
  
              There was a beautiful sunrise over the city, and they stood in the light of the sun, smoking and praying to their own personal deity that Richard would get through this and come out a stronger person on the other side. Everything was busy around them, and yet they felt numb to it all. They couldn’t have their careers over almost as soon as they’d begun. The intense light put a glow on Paul’s skin that made him look ten years younger, and he began to look like that young punk Till had fallen in love with. He wanted to badly to reach out and touch him, to pull him to him and make him feel more alive, better about all of this. But everything in Paul’s body language suggested he didn’t want that. His arms were folded across his chest and even his legs crossed as he stood still. Everything was closed off.  
  
               “I just want to know why he’s doing this?”  
  
               Till had a faint idea, but didn’t feel it was his place to discuss Richard’s issues. There were things that Richard had mentioned in passing which hinted to the reason for his continued drug use.  
  
               “We’ll sort this, okay? It’ll be okay.”  
  
               He knew Paul blamed him. He should have followed the guitarist and made sure that he was going to Paul. He should have kept him in his line of sight at all times. And Till felt a deep guilt because knowing Richard’s critical condition he knew he should have been more attentive.  
  
              “I’m sure we’ll fix it. We’ll make sure he gets better.”  
  
               “He’ll be fine, okay? I know it.”  
  
               “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm (basically) rewriting this whole thing so far. I read through the first chapter a few weeks ago and was like "NO BITCH THIS IS TERRIBLE" because there was tense switches, i was going between second and third person and it was just generally a mess so, here's chapter 2 of my far less messy fic with some extras added in just for you! 
> 
> There are some things here that I feel need to be discussed. I often get terribly sick of seeing people throw drug addiction around like it's something to laugh at. I can tell you, it isn't. And the issues behind the mental aspect of drug addiction are something I wish to explore more through Richard. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> All comments and criticisms are welcome either here or on my tumblr (frankieteardr0p)
> 
> Thanks <3


	3. December 1999

**New Years Eve**

 

               Humans are, as creatures, inherently backwards looking. They don’t often dwell on future endeavours, choosing mostly to focus on what has already occurred; analysing past events over and over as if that will make what is yet to happen immensely better.  
  
               But it never does.  
  
               _Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it_ an old history teacher had once told him. That was why, they learned, that the dictators of the early twentieth century had failed in their conquests; they hadn’t learned from those who’d come before them.  
  
               He made the same New Year’s Resolution every year; _Be more forward focused._ Look at the things he planned to do rather than at the things he’d already accomplished, or failed to do, which was more often than not the topic of his drifting mind. But he found every year that by his birthday, Till would be looking back at days passed and would wish to go back and relive those days, analysing every little thing that had gone wrong and how he would change his life. But there were always certain aspects of his life that he would never change. And he felt that there were many things in his life that were inevitable.  
  
               Till looked around the room and saw the mass getting drunker by the second, bringing in the new year as they meant to go on, but Till just didn’t feel like celebrating. At this moment in time he wished he had Paul here with him. He missed him. But Paul was still a little angry at him for what had happened during the tour, and had had a sour attitude towards him generally for a good couple of years. Not without reason, but he didn’t know the whole truth, and that combined with no inclination to listen meant that he would never understand what had happened between Till and Richard.  
  
               But he didn’t want to dwell in the thing that’d gone wrong. He didn’t want to see in the New Year with painful memories and anxieties about his future romantic endeavours. He just wanted to sit and think back over the relationship he’d built with his closest friends. Richard had really been the first, and the introduction into the lifestyle they had become accustomed to. His friendship had been an odd one, and one that had resulted in his position in life now.  
  
                There was this odd melancholia about Richard that fascinated Till more than anything else about him.  There were aspects of Richard’s personality that Till knew so much about, and yet he felt like a complete enigma.  There was no one singularly, unified way to describe Richard; no word which allowed an easy explanation of his character.  He was indescribable.  And he had the most fascinating life, that drew Till even closer, that a man having been through so much could exist seemingly so easily.   
****  
Richard seemed constantly in mourning for the life he should have lived; mourning the loss of Zven Kruspe, aged twenty, when he changed his name to something he felt more fitting; mourning the tall, handsome being he so wished he was, despite numerous partner’s telling him otherwise; mourning the loss of his home, rarely returning to Wittenberge (but not mourning the loss of the Stasi and the GDR) of his former life, and the love of his mother he should have felt but never did.  Till was deeply aware of Richard’s keen survival instinct, and with that deeply ingrained in ones soul it is difficult to lead a life of survival without an element of mourning.  
  
                But the difference between mourning and melancholia is the length of time with which one suffers, and Richard seemed to have been mourning his whole life.   
  
                But that was partly why Till felt so drawn to Richard in the first place.  Aside from this odd magnetism that Richard had, Till felt drawn to him because he mostly understood what it meant to feel loss; that deep melancholy which lives deep inside your brain and boils and bubbles to the surface in hot, rank clouds of depression and desperation; But the East taught them both to be men, and men don’t show their emotions, or deal with them in any capacity.  Bury the emotions deep; anchor the corpse to the bottom to be picked clean by the bottom feeders in the depths of ones soul; bury them deep under the Mind’s Tide, that sticky black bile, where there are no scavengers, not natural order to pull at the strings which anchor them down and bring them bubbling to the surface.  Mutilated.  Infectious.  Open up that empty space full up with ghosts, and let those emotions lie deep in there to rot away to nothing.  
  
                No.  This was something they had bonded over this weird habit they both had, and in one another found a deep solace, a soothing for that tired ache in their brains as the deepest, darkest things tried to escape.  Together, they felt, finally that they could really be who they needed to be, rather than what they were expected to be.  There had often been evenings when Till could sit and write poetry, or stories, and Richard would be in his company and they’d sit in an amicable silence.  This was something Till never experienced with anyone else.  He rarely wanted to speak, and saved his words for times when they were called for.  But with others, Till felt as though every moment needed to be filled with empty speech, and he began to understand that this was where Paul’s main line of insecurity fell.  
  
               It wasn’t until he disappeared that Till really missed his absence. When Richard made his way to the west, Till was certain he’d never see him again. They had all heard the horror stories coming back from the refugee camps in Hungary. They knew how tough they could be, and how dangerous the journey to them was. Till accepted that he’d most likely never see Richard again, and that had made him incredibly sad. But at that point in his life, he’s also met Paul and Flake, but that irrevocable absence was felt whole-heartedly until his return. It had really shaken everyone in their circle of friends, but it wasn’t something they weren’t used to. It happened all the time, people disappearing, but they were lucky to know where he was going.  
  
                When Till first met Paul, he was this lively, terribly dressed punk; ragged clothes and hair pulled up with a piece of bungee cord he’d found on the ground most likely.  Till had initially been a fan of Feeling B, the most documented band in the East German Punk scene, but when they broke into his house and played a concert, Till became clear on a few things about Paul Landers.  
  
                Firstly, Paul was never alone, anywhere he went, and it was never just with one person either, there was always a gaggle of humans following him around.  And secondly, he never stopped talking.   
  
                There was never a moment’s peace with Paul Landers, but there was a small part of Till that liked that about him.  It was as if he’d never internalized a thought in his life, vocalizing everything that crossed his mind and that openness was something Till found so incredibly comforting.  He knew the noise was selective, and that there were things Paul knew or had experienced that he would never speak of, but rather than receding into himself, he was open and honest and provided a lightness to Till’s otherwise fairy dark little world.   
  
                After he’d burnt up one of Till’s frying pans, it wasn’t long before the two began to fall for one another, and it was obvious, and it happened very quickly.  Till remembered vividly the experience of Paul meeting Richard for the first time at his house. He remembered quite clearly that Paul felt tangibly threatened by Richard’s relationship with him, and appeared more relaxed around Till when he was certain that Richard had left them for The West.  
  
               He stops thinking for a moment and sighs, sipping at his beer as he heard the cry that it’s half an hour till midnight. His eyes were stinging and a sobering pain pierces the back of his mind. He still needed to fill his mind with universally beautiful memories to fill his new year with good karma in order to make sure things aren’t awful, and he doesn’t feel so deeply depressed for even a short amount of time.  
  
               His mind flutters back to the first time he kissed Paul, and it brings a small smile to his face. He thought back to the darkness that surrounded them as they sat, late at night, outside Paul’s apartment in Berlin. Till’s had driven them back in his Trabant, and Paul sat in the passenger’s seat in a very uncharacteristic silence. He remembered the look of Paul as he sighed heavily and rested his head back against the headrest. “Do you realise we just spent an entire weekend doing nothing.” Paul spoke, and sat himself forward to light a cigarette. Till loved the smell of the cigarettes Paul smoked. They weren’t the standard brand they were used to in The East; something Aljoscha managed to procure from somewhere in secret and shared them with Paul in exchange for the money they made from their shows. The smell of those cigarettes still clung to the inside of his nose, even ten years later, and it gave him this horribly familiar sense of nostalgia for the seemingly simpler time of the GDR and the beautiful beginnings of his relationship with Paul.  
  
               “We did nothing, so what?” he remembered retorting, turning off the engine, letting the silence settle around them. He remembered, and re-experienced the goose bumps that rose on his skin as Paul turned his eyes on him. He couldn’t explain why, but there was something terribly beautiful about Paul in those days. He was always so slight, the skinniest wrists you’d ever seen on a man, but he had more personality than anyone you’d experienced before. He had the most infectious smile, and nothing and no one seemed to bring him down. He lived a very simple life, with Aljoscha and Flake, and he seemed so happy with that.  
  
               “Aljoscha will kill me.” He stated plainly. “ _Don’t come back until you’ve written some more songs.”_ He did his best Aljoscha impression, and it had always been spot on. Till figured that’s what would happen to him if he’d spent his late teens and most of his twenties with the man in a small van travelling around the country. Till remembered seeing a car pull up behind them on the opposite side of the road, and he began to feel a little nervous. Berlin always made him feel uneasy. It never took long for him to miss the quite solitude that the countryside provided him. He hated everyone knowing his business and he hated that that seemed to be the case wherever he went in Berlin.  
  
               “Till.” His attention was drawn back to the smaller man in the seat next to him. He had drifted off, but was still looking in Paul’s direction. He seemed to be staring at the smaller man, but he wasn’t focused on him. “Are you okay?” He nodded an affirmative, and he remembered his lack of reaction as Paul leaned over the centre console and kissed him. He remembers the kiss lasting a long time, and it was the first time a kiss had ever stirred up some sort of emotion within Till. He’d never really expected anyone to make him feel this way just from _kissing._  
  
                When he expected Paul to break the kiss, he felt rough fingers on his cheek, gently feeling their way into his hair, pulling at the strands; another strong hand on his chest, anchoring himself in place so as not to spoil things. He felt a small moan escape his throat into the kiss and leaned forward into the other. But when Paul finally broke away, Till had never felt more pining for anything in his life. But he left, and got out of the car and went into his house. That was it.  
  
                And then the wall fell.  
  
               And then Richard returned.  
  
               He was noticeably different upon his return, and not just physically. He was thinner, his face looked older, his skin more pallid and drained. He looked like a completely different person. He’d grown his hair longer, and it had started to dread under the lack of care he’d had for himself in the time he’d been gone. He’d closed up completely, and refused to discuss what happened while he was away, or how he’d found the west. He was completely different.  
  
               The worry for Richard this stirred in Till only added fuel to the insecurities that Paul held about his friendship with Richard. Till keenly remembered that Paul didn’t speak to him for the best part of three weeks after their initial kiss, and that broke him a little inside. He ached in those feelings of rejection and pain, and when he called to tell of Richard’s return, he was met with accusations and curt replies. He wanted to act big and he wanted to act soon. He wanted more than anything to prove to Paul that he loved him.  
  
               The count-down continued and it was twenty minutes to midnight. In the chronology of his memories, something deeply important happened between himself and Paul around that time in the early days of their relationship. And it was always the witching hour that the strangest, most wonderful things happened to them.  
  
                 When the two of them got incredibly drunk together, Till built up the courage to make a move on Paul. It wasn’t just kissing; it was all sorts, but it was clumsy and painful and drunk.   Till had been an emotional wreck, for reasons unknown to him at that time. It just happened to be Paul who had allowed him the privilege of burying his feelings in the bliss of an awkward sexual encounter. And it had bee awkward; too many silences, sideways glances and an aching in his chest.  
  
               The second time was a more calculated, better planning was involved. They’d waited, and wanted and pined for the longest time, before finally it seemed that they were fortune’s fool.  
  
               Now or never.  
  
               Pushed into a bathroom stall and shoved down into the seat, Till got down on his knees and worshipped every inch of Paul he could find. He felt sick with nerves, every muscle in his body frozen, aching for more than just this. Till learned a lot about Paul that evening, for even over the thudding music of their after party, Paul was loud, and he only got louder. And he was rough, gripping Till’s hair in painful fistfuls and pulling him into his crotch to take him deeper,  _deeper._ It felt like being underwater, but Till has always been a survivalist, and some part of him knew that it wasn’t going to be long before this crests into orgasm for him, so this short time without breath was like swimming; that gives him the strength to keep going.  
  
               “Fuck…” Paul gripped his hair tighter, his other hand reaching for whatever he could around him.  
  
               It was not something Till had ever experienced before, and the sea-sickness which overtook all other senses as Paul came in his throat was something he had never expected. But it was far too deep to just spit out, he had no option but to swallow.  _Is this how women feel every time?_ He asked himself, and he slowly sat up, wiping his mouth clean on the back of his hand. He didn’t have much time for thoughts as Paul pulled him into the deepest kiss, his whole body relaxing, the sickness disappearing from his stomach. He rested his hands on Paul’s thighs, and there was another minute before it was over. He let go of Till’s hair, gently running his fingers through the strands to smooth out the knots, making it lie properly.  
  
               He couldn’t speak. For once, Paul was completely dumbfounded, and sits back, and there was an audible zip before he takes a deep breath.  
  
                 “Are you okay?” he manages to spit out, reaching out to take one of Till’s hands.  
  
               “Yeah, I’m fine.” Till said, slowly getting himself to his feet. In the time it took for him to stand, Paul hadn’t taken his hands from him. He’d had no idea how affectionate the smaller man was or could be in this moment. Paul kissed him once more before they both left the bathroom, and nothing more was said about that evening.  
  
               Ten to midnight.  
  
               He sat and thought about that morning in the hospital, Richard having overdosed, and Paul’s reactions. How he’d sat by the other and held his hand tightly, gently rubbing his thumb over the soft skin on the back of Paul’s hand. Till was acutely aware that Richard’s deteriorating condition and accidental overdose had affected Paul more than the rest of them. While their friendship had begun quite turbulent, they had grown very close, both professionally and personally. Till’s jealous of their closeness had outgrown Paul’s insecurities and as the two guitarists had spent hours together writing riffs and working out staging for their solos, Till had always really been left to his own devices with lyrics. Admittedly, the others had helped him, but there was never that closeness, and it couldn’t be replicated.  
  
                 Regardless of his feelings towards Richard as an addict, the guitarist was his close friend and had been for a very long time. He knew his approach of tough love wasn’t working as much as Paul’s mothering was, but he felt as though he needed to do something. He often asked himself what he would do if it were one of his children in this position? And the answer was always the same; support them through rehab and help to get them better, whatever it took, whatever the costs. He remembered asking himself if he was really offering that to Richard, but he knew in that moment that he wasn’t. He needed to be more kind and understanding. Having witnessed what Richard had experienced through his lifetime, there was no end to the list of reasons that Richard had become this person.  
  
               They were called into the cubicle to see Richard, and were told he was awake. He remembered the kind of giddiness he felt radiating from Paul as he was allowed to now speak with his friend.  
  
               Only two at a time.  
  
               Only fifteen minutes.  
  
               Till went with Paul, for moral and physical support. He remembers the sheer panic that he felt he was no looking worried enough, having already been accused of not caring enough. The truth was that he did care; he had always cared. But he was never very good at showing his feelings through his facial expressions. He’d always been a little self conscious of the fact that he wasn’t one for wearing his heart on his sleeve. That stoic expression that they’d all gotten used to was a mask. He knew he needed to at least look concerned, even if he wasn’t sure he felt it anymore.  
  
               They were called to the room; two went through to the tiny cubicle where Richard’s sobriety began. He remembered the feel of Paul’s normally warm and welcoming hands feeling cold and clammy against his skin as the panic and worry exuded from him.  
  
                This was not the first time Richard had been in this position.  
  
               This would not be the last.  
  
               They were told that he was awake and responsive but did not look in the best shape. They had continued their tests on his system to see what damage had been done, but they needed to fully understand what exactly the cocktail was that Richard had shoved into his system, and this was information that he wasn’t offering freely. They nurses were uncertain whether he remembered, but knowing their friend, he probably didn’t want to offer it up.  
  
               He remembered the room so clearly. It was so bright, the stark white walls washed with sunlight streaming into the room. He remembered so vividly the whiteness of Richard’s skin blending in with the starkness of the room, and how un-Richard-like he looked in the bed. He looked so small, surrounded by machines, a pitiful expression of regret on his face. But there was no remorse behind it. The room was entirely too bright and it hurt his eyes to look at him. But Till had refused to look away from the other. There was this anger that bubbled under the surface due to the stupidity of their friend.  
  
               Richard called their names quietly, nervously, and Till remembered the expression on Paul’s face; unable to look, unable to see the damage their friend had done to himself. But Till felt nothing but anger, and he lived to regret that anger. Paul felt nothing but pity for their friend, whereas Till felt nothing but blind rage. How dare he put himself in this position! How dare he risk removing himself from their lives so permanently! How dare he do this to the band, to Till, to Paul so personally!  
  
               “How are you feeling?” He asked Richard, but not through any real concern anymore. That feeling had been pushed aside and all that was left was the need to restrain himself from punching the younger man into the bed. He remembered Richard explaining how he felt; more human. No more blood. No more vomit. This only serve to push Till’s lividity further.  
  
               He regretted his actions, but he remembered not being able to stand there anymore and deal with Richard’s lack of remorse for his actions.  
  
               “You almost died. “ He reminded the younger man. “You almost put an end to all our careers.”  
  
               “Well I’m still here, aren’t I?” was Richard’s reply, and that pushed the red mist to descend.  
  
               He didn’t bother to reply. He just left.  
  
               He could still feel the depth of Paul’s grip on his arm as he stormed down the corridor to the exit. He was ready to go home and leave all this behind. He couldn’t face dealing with Richard’s problems anymore. He wanted to get away from the drama this band seemed to drag around with it and live out his days in peace and harmony in Schwerin, where his biggest issues were pond weed and basket weaving.  
  
               “You are not leaving us again!” were Paul’s words and there was an immense amount of anger behind them. “You are not leaving me to pick this up alone.”  
  
               “You have three others, Paul. You don’t need me.” Till explained, snapping his arm away.  
  
               “Then you are not leaving me. And that is final.”  
  
               It took a moment for the reality of Paul’s words to sink in, but Till remembered them instantly calming that anger within him and that felt suddenly odd. He’d never experienced that feeling with anyone but Richard before, and for Paul to alleviate some of that anger in his bones, it felt wonderful.  
  
               “Did you just say I can’t leave you…?” he could feel his lips curling at the memory of Paul instantly becoming coy.  
  
               “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”  
  
               “Then explain, Paul… What did you mean?”  
  
               “Nothing, you shit head. I just meant that you don’t get to walk away from this band.” Paul frowned up at him, and there was something incredibly warming in the look on his face. There was no malice there, none of that vitriol and anger from before.  
  
               “No, no. Don’t backtrack; let’s go through this. You said,  _You_ said I wasn’t allowed to leave  _you._ Not the band, not the country, I wasn’t allowed to leave you. Why?”  
  
               “Till, can you not be a shithead about this for five minutes.” Paul looked weary and it was endearing. Through all the turbulence they’d experienced, here Paul was, pushing his feelings onto Till, and even now, a few months later, Till felt as though Paul really did love him. He felt in that moment that the emotions he’d felt towards Paul and their relationship was just as deep as anything he’d experienced with Richard’s friendship. The two of them were made for each other. Whatever their souls had been crafted from, it had been cut from the same cloth as Till’s.  
  
               “I’m not made up about the band right now.” He remembered explaining, and he still wasn’t. Tour was over, and it was five minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve. He looked down at the mobile phone in his hand and wished he was with Paul.  
  
               “I need a break from all of this. I need to get away for a while and go home, be on my own, away from this drama.”  
  
               “Does that mean I won’t see you?” Paul had asked, chewing on his lip.  
  
               “You’re always welcome to come to me, Paul. You know that.”  
  
               Paul’s face lit up a moment, but the realization of their predicament hit him once more. It was something Till had gotten used to seeing. Paul seemed to have this issue with abandonment that was rooted far deeper in him than anyone else could have imagined. Till had only seen the full extent of Paul’s inability to deal with rejection a few times before this moment. Being told he was not allowed to leave Paul was nothing; Paul cut people out of his life very quickly if he saw things going south. Once the cracks in that exterior of his began to show, he was a fiercely loyal friend who would stick by anyone through thick and thin. In some ways, Till was continuously amazed at Paul’s ability to be a good friend despite his friends doing very shitty things to him.  
  
                 Till, on the other hand, rarely let people close enough to him to be able to do any damage to his ego. He had long since learned that people are shitty and will cause hurt without really meaning to. But also, people can do a lot of damage deliberately. Richard was a person who Till had allowed to get close. The younger man had caused untold damage to Till emotionally. He was the majority of the reason that Till and Paul struggled to be together; he was the reason Till had sunken into this spiral of not-caring and human-hating; he was the reason that Till had taken up drinking whiskey as a part-time hobby. Richard had ruined much for Till, and that was why Paul’s question seemed to hurt all the more.  
  
                 “What do we do about Richard then?” Paul had asked him, and Till still didn’t know the answer to that question. Paul looked up, unable to stop the gravity of the situation holding him down. Rather than being concerned with their relationship, Paul was concerned for their friend in the bed upstairs. Richard had come between them many times before, but this time felt different.  
  
               He wasn’t sure why, but Till was the person that Richard called whenever he needed to get himself out of a bad situation. If he’d been on a binge and woken up somewhere he didn’t know, surrounded by people he wasn’t sure of, he called Till; if he found himself in the centre of a drug den, coked out on a mattress in some dingy apartment, he called Till; if he found himself backed into a corner by dealers, unable to make his bill for that week, he called Till. He’d never been sure why Richard chose him over Paul. Paul had always been the more nurturing of the two of them, and he certainly didn’t understand why he didn’t call any of the other three for help. It was always Till. He made a mental note to make sure to ask Richard why it had always been him.  
  
               Maybe it’s because Richard thought Till didn’t care enough to judge him for finding himself in these places?  
  
               He felt oddly regretful of his experience in the months before their tour had finished. And he knew that he should have treated Richard better. He knew he should have been more understanding of the other. He knew he should love him like the family he’d become. But Richard couldn't be their problem anymore.  Richard had a new wife, and a beautiful place in New York.  He was never going to get better living alone in New York, isolated in another country with a large language barrier.  They missed him, a lot, but there was nothing they could do.  He had to come home on his own terms.  He had to get better on his own terms.  
  
               The phone in his hand began to buzz as the ten second count down began.  
  
              Ten!  
  
               “ _Till are you there?”_  
  
               Seven!  
  
               “Paul is that you?”  
  
               Five!  
  
               “ _Till I can’t hear you!”_  
  
               Four!  
  
               “Paul! Where are you?” __  
  
              Three!  
  
               “ _I’m at home! I’ll come and see you tomorrow!”_  
  
               Two!  
  
               “What?”  
  
               One!  
  
_“Happy new year Till. I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just decided to delete it and start again.
> 
> Completely rewritten.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. All comments welcome here and on tumblr <3


	4. February 2000

               Tomorrow never came, and neither did Paul. ****  
  
               He had been avoiding all forms of responsibility to anyone but himself and his family since he’d returned from tour. His phone was switched off, the house phone unanswered unless completely necessary (those who know him well enough wait for him to call, unless it’s urgent). He sunk himself into the lake once more, allowing the tension in his arms to propel him forward, and the wash of the water cleansing him, making him feel more human. He enjoyed being in the water because it gave him a clear time to think. He had time to reflect, on the last two months as the new year set off at hyper speed towards another December.  
  
               When he stopped caring, when he truly stopped giving a fuck – which was the persona he thought he’d just try on for size before realizing the sad solitary truth of the broken soul inside himself – he realised how incredibly freeing it was to be totally liberated from the worry of other’s opinions. In the moment he realised he didn’t care anymore – about other people, the standards they held him to, his self worth – he felt completely free of every ounce of worry that had ever weighted his shoulders low. For a while, he felt perfect; calm and completely at ease with himself; all that anxiety gone from his life. But that sad, sorry, selfish feeling began to creep into his soul and slowly began racking up a debt which in the end morphed into these insurmountable missteps which were a lot more than he’d bargained for. He’d sold his soul for, what he realised was, debilitating liberation, and there was no way that shark was ever giving it back.  
  
               He pulled himself deep under the water; the chill of winter catching him as he came above the surface and he sunk himself deeper, eyes screwed shut as he let the water surround him completely, letting the depths take hold of him.  
  
               His self-image had begun to adapt. If he thought back to whom he was before he began this freight train of a band, was he really any different to that young and naïve person? He began to justify the idea of who he had become. Was he slowly approaching rock bottom? ‘ _Well I abandoned my friend when really he needed me, so what makes this any different?’_ A deviated defense mechanism. But really, he knew he could do worse than abandoning Richard, and Paul, and the others. He’d been sinking into his usual patterns of depression since his birthday, and the farther he fell, the more difficult it became for him to find the motivation to climb out of the depths of that hole he’d dug for himself.  
  
              But the weakness and desperation that he’d been lugging around behind him like an anchor felt as though it was lifting, not dragging him down like it always did. He never used to have the energy or strength of mind to struggle on against it, and at points he’d felt as though he’d sunk so deep that whatever moment of lucidity he’d felt in his life at that time didn’t feel like lucidity anymore. But his mind-eye felt clear, his body felt light and his soul felt free. No longer did he feel the burden of worry for others; no longer did he feel the weight of other’s judgment heavy on his shoulders. He felt nothing. He felt sorrow for the part of him that he felt was missing, the shame and embarrassment in himself and his actions, but didn’t miss it for very long, remembering the sheer sense of freedom for which he had longed for what felt like an eternity.  
  
               He thought back over the mistakes he’d made in his life and wondered what he could do to write them down and make a book of them. “ _100 regrets of my life time”_ he could call it. People wrote books about their mistakes all the time and used them to get up on their soapbox and spill all the life lessons they’d learned from these horrid acts of evil. But Till knew they were full of shit. The idea of being a reformed character was so alien to him. He thought of Richard, and how, one day, the prodigal son would return a reformed man. But he knew this was not a tale of sorrow and redemption; this was a cautionary tale, telling us the sad story of the human condition, foreshadowing the inevitable downfall of their souls.  
  
               He came up for air, gasping as he looked around, spotting a figure on his porch, looking out at the lake towards him.  
  
               _I am a disgusting person._  
  
               He chose not to move. If the person wanted him, they could come to him.  
  
               He lay flat in the lake, drifting slowly through the water, the sound of the water lulling at his ears as he was still. He felt calm. He felt collected. He felt at home in the water. There was no danger here. There was no current, nothing to pull him under.  
  
              “Till!” came a voice, muffled by the water in his ears. He looked up then, spotting a familiar shape walking towards him. “Till! Come out of the water and inside! We need to talk!”  
  
               “Paul!” he called, a smile gracing his face. “Why don’t you come in here and we’ll talk. The water is divine!”  
  
               “Did you dig out the reeds on the banks?” he asked, a frown pulling at Paul’s features, the memory of previous swimming adventures in Till’s lake clearly playing in the forefront of Paul’s mind.  
  
               “No? Why would I have? They’re the habitat of so many creatures? Why would I destroy their homes?”  
  
               “Then I’m not coming in. Get out and get inside. This is serious.”  
  
               He’d taken that tone, which meant Till had better get out of the water under pain of death. He swore to himself that he’d push that man into the lake if it killed him, but for now he knew there were responsibilities he needed to recognize and issues that needed discussing.  
  
               As he climbed from the water, he noted Paul watching him with keen interest.  
  
               “Cold in there, is it?” Paul began to giggle, handing Till the towel that he’d picked up from the chair on the porch. As he stalks past the younger man, he looks up at the sky, seeing the dark clouds hanging low in the sky, heavy with snow threatening to fall in the late winter.  
  
               “Fuck off, Landers.”  
  
                They made their way towards the house, Till spotted another figure in Paul’s car that sat on the drive.  
  
               “What’s he doing here?” Till asked, motioning towards the car, frowning softly.  
  
               “That’s why I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the past week, idiot.” Paul said, moving to help Richard from the car and into Till’s house. “He turned up at my door a week ago and I’ve been trying to contact you about that rehab centre we were looking at. Because I wanted to take him. But you had all the details.” Paul huffed, plopping Richard down into a chair. He was a mess. Richard sat there, staring at nothing in particular. He looked broken. “Hasn’t Caron been trying to call you? He’d been missing for three weeks prior to this?”  
  
               “My phone was off” Till put it simply, wrapping a towel tightly around his waist, heading up the stairs to put some clothes on. “I haven’t heard from anyone since new years.” Till reminded Paul, frowning as he stomped up the stairs. He changed and made his way downstairs. “Have you told Caron your great and powerful plan?”  
  
               “Yes. She agrees. We’ve got to take him now. He needs to go into a rehab now we’re all on a break for the time being.”  
  
               It was agreed then. They needed to get him somewhere to recover. The problem had boiled over to a point where it had gotten too much, and it could no longer be ignored. He’d ended up in hospital and now he had run away from his wife and ended up on another continent.  
  
               They strapped Richard into the back seat of the car, letting him lie down. They climbed into the front of the car and pulled away, heading in the direction of the rehab Till had looked up previously. There was this massive weight of guilt hanging about the car between the two that occupied the front seats. They were giving him up to someone else’s care. They collectively felt as though they should be the ones taking care of Richard and fixing him, but it just felt unmanageable now. He was beyond their help and needed professionals.  
  
               They’d been driving for hours. The rehab centre sat in the middle of a large, dense forest, and Richard would have to get used to being away from the city. Till was aware that Richard never liked being too far from the city, from civilization. He wasn’t like Till and Oliver; he didn’t appreciate the natural beauty of nature in the same way they did. He’d always preferred the hustle and bustle of city life. It was the silence that killed him. Richard hated silence and they all knew it. ****  
  
_“Wohin fahren wir?”_  
  
               “You’re missing the turning Till, It’s literally the next exit.”  
  
_“Till? Paul? Wohin fahren wir?”_ Richard said, sitting himself up in his chair to look out of the front of the car. He gestured towards the cigarettes near Paul’s left knee. Till notices in the rear view mirror and nudges Paul, not answering Richard’s question. __  
  
               “Paul, I know where I’m going. I drove here before, remember? I came to check this place out. Those who’ve never been here before aren’t allowed to be my backseat driver.”  
  
Paul turned in his seat and looked at Richard. “Did you say something?” Paul asked him, twisting in his seat so he could reach to take one of Richard’s hands. They were freezing, and the skin was slowly turning a beautiful hue of blue.  
  
                “I said ‘where are we driving to?’.” Richard repeated for the third time, shifting slightly. Paul’s hands were beautifully warm against his skin, and he squeezed the smaller man’s fingers as tightly as he could.  
  
               “We’re taking you somewhere that you can rest, Richard.”  
  
               He sighed lightly and looked out of the window next to him. The draft in the car had finally gotten to him, and he was visibly shivering. He watched the drifting cars around them as they drove down the autobahn, his eyes glazed over.  
  
               “Put one of the coats on, Richard. You’re frozen back there.”  
  
               The journey continued mostly in silence. Till concentrated on finding the clinic they’d checked Richard into, while harrying the memories of Richard’s driving out of his mind, thanking the stars he was controlling the vehicle. Paul looked at the scenery around them as they drove through a dense forest, noting how beautiful it looked as the bright sunlight streamed through the gaps in the foliage. Richard sat silently in the back, staring at nothing in particular. He wasn’t really conscious of where he was going, but he was certain he was going there against his will. He hadn’t forgotten them discussing this before their tour ended and he knew where they were taking him. But Richard also knew they were doing the right thing. He needed this and they’d checked him into the best facility they could in order to fix his addiction.  
  
               There seemed the be this sense of relief in Richard that both Till and Paul had noted. They knew home in Germany meant he was closer to those who’d really know how to look after him, how to care for him, rather than back in New York with a wife who barely knew him and friends who didn’t really care what happened to him. Here in the countryside, it provided a level of solace that Richard needed to allay the ghosts in his mind and begin to better himself; get his life back on track. The city was full of too many well-known options, and coming home meant he had none. He could start again and get himself back to where he needed to be.  
  
               But as they pulled up into the parking lot, the fidgeting began. Till climbed out of the car first and made his way inside, Richard’s eyes following his figure as he walked through the large, glass, automated doors. The front of the building was large and lodge-like. Paul turned to look at Richard, handing him the remains of a bottle of water. The look on Paul’s face broke Richard’s heart. The look of pure _pity._ There was nothing quite like it. They all pitied Richard for carrying the burden of this addiction, and yet none of them truly knew why it had developed in the first place.  
  
               Paul climbed out next and pulled open Richard’s passenger door. He helped his friend get out of the car and held onto his hand tightly. Till came wandering towards them to help and took hold of Richard’s other hand, physically supporting him in their walk to the entrance. Richard stopped a few feet short and looked up at the building’s façade; low and long and connected; functional; simple menacing; an instrument of torture, perhaps?  
  
               “I don’t want to do this.” Richard said in a low voice, mumbling in embarrassment at his own weak will. He tried to pull his hands from the other two. “I want to go home.” And the two of them knew that all he really wanted to do was run away, or get himself fucked up, anything but this. He wished in that moment that he was gone, wiped off the map, his existence denied. He wished more than anything that he could crawl into a hole and never come out. He wished he could rip out his eyes and his heart and turn himself off. _Anything but this._  
  
               And Till understood. Till knew the sheer desperation in his friend to get away from all this shit but instead, he was here having his hand forced into a situation he’d rather have avoided. But he wasn’t strong enough to combat this addiction alone. He needed help; professional help.  
  
               “Come on Richard, you’ve got to do this for yourself, you’ve got to get better. Think of Khira.”   Till reminded him, and it was a gentle reminder to Richard. “We want to help you, Scholle, please. Come on.”  
  
               Richard took a deep breath.  
  
               Richard squeezed on their hands.  
  
               Richard stepped into the building.  
  
               There was a small waiting room to their right and Paul took Richard into the room to sit down. The sterile smell of hospitals appeared to his Richard hard, and he became hyperaware of his surroundings. His eyes darted around, looking and surveying the exits. Till knew he was panicking, as they’d all heard the horror stories of addiction withdrawal and the treatment these programs used. Till came to join them in the waiting area and sat on the other side of Richard, taking his hand once more.  
  
               “I can’t breathe.” Richard groaned, gripping his chest, panic gripping his heart.  
  
               “You’ll be fine, Richard. You can do this.”  
  
               He was shaking. His hands, and feet, and lips and chest, all shaking, all numb. All numb through fear.  _All numb through withdrawal._  
  
                _It’s too late to back out now._  
  
               “They’re checking you in now, okay?”  
  
               “Alright”  
  
               “You’re going to be fine. This is a good place.” Till explained. He squeezed Richard’s fingers gently. “The best place.”  
  
               “That’s what I hear.”  
  
               “Are you ready?”  
  
               A doctor appeared at the door, pristine white coat matching the pristine white walls. All three of them stand, hands gripping one another’s.  
  
               “Oh. I’m sorry; you’ll have to leave him here. We’ll check him in and you can call us later to see how how’s doing.” They were told, and Richard’s grip tightened on both their hands. Till nodded and looked at Richard, before pulling him into a tight hug.  
  
               “ _Please don’t leave me here.”_  
  
               “You’ll be okay. We’re not far, okay?”  
  
               He slowly lets go, and Paul takes his place, gripping him tightly. “You’re in the right place.” Paul repeats the sentiment, pressing a kiss to Richard’s cheek. “You’ll be okay. You’ve got to get better.”  
  
                _You’ve got to get better._  
  
                _You’re in the right place._  
  
                 _Please don’t leave me._  
  
                _Don’t leave me here._  
  
               Richard turned then without a word and left, following the doctor through the large, glass double doors, shutting him off to his friends; shutting him off to the world.  
  
               He knew they were going to sit in the car outside for a while before they left him there for good. He knew Paul was going to cry. He knew Till would offer piss-poor words of encouragement that they had _done the right thing_. And the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. They’d betrayed him. They’d abandoned him there, not trusting him to sort this out for himself, treating him like a child. How dare they!  
  
               There was, however, the most beautiful view of the forest from his room, which he was sure he’d appreciate more once he was not itching from the neck down. He took off his shoes and lay himself under the blankets, closing his eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep.  
  
               When he woke, he felt like he had been asleep for hours. He was shivering, and he curled up and clenched his fists tight, feeling his nails digging into the palms of his hands. Sweat poured from his body, and his sheets were soaked. Stage one of withdrawal was setting in good and proper. Everywhere on his body was wet; his chest, his arms, the backs of his legs. Sweat stung his eyes as it poured from his face. He sat up, groaning as his muscles ached. He heard someone moan, and then spotted the large bug in the corner of the room. He knew it was not really there. Everything began to close in, the walls crushing down, the sound overwhelming. He covered his ears but it didn’t stop the rushing noise in his head.  
  
               It was dark outside, and the forest looked haunting, and this did nothing to aid Richard’s mental state. He stood, but forgot. Where was he? What was he doing here?   He curled up back on the bed and waited, hoping this would pass. It was too much. This was all too much. The blackness surrounded him, swallowed him whole, leaving him alone and cold, no one to assist him; no one to make him feel alive. If he could find something,  _anything,_ just to end this pain, to take away from this aching in his body; the aching right to his bones, he’d be able to get through. Just this one night.  
  
               But it felt hopeless. Everything was hopeless. Existence was hopeless; it was meaningless. So why was he suffering through this? This was only the first night of many? Why didn’t he just leave? He could pick himself up, walk right out the front door and get himself a fix as quickly as he could.  
  
                _But they’ll be disappointed in me._  
  
               It felt like the flu was setting in. His body was heavy, weak, sweating and writhing, unable to sit still, a sickness in the stomach that wouldn’t budge. He pulled himself back to his bed, wrapping himself in the sheets to allow the sweat to soak from him; anything for a moment’s rest from the agony of just being so darn  _wet._  
  
               When they’d told him this wasn’t what cocaine withdrawal would be like, they’d lied. For the first time, he  _felt_ like an addict. His brain slowed, and he began to have trouble processing his thoughts. They were a mess, unable to think logically, his thoughts jumped from one thing to another, never really stopping to process the thought effectively. The room span so fast, dizziness being the worst of the symptoms. He felt trapped. He could feel the sensation of cocaine in his nose; he could taste it in his mouth. He needed it in his body as quickly as he could.  
  
                _I can’t do this. I need to get out. Someone, please! Help me!_

              Paul hung around Till’s neck, head on his shoulder, alone in Paul’s apartment. Berlin was closer to the clinic than Schwerin, and the two extra hours drive just didn’t feel appealing to them with the weight of their guilt at abandoning Richard in that place.   The whole arrangement of their bodies is strangely uncomfortable and Till attempted not to look around the room for an exit. This was the first time they’d truly been alone together in the best part of two years, and it felt somewhat glorious to be this close to the only person Till wanted to surround himself with.   There was an air of calm that settled over them in this moment. They’d done the right thing, but it still felt like betrayal.  
  
              “I’ve missed this,” Paul broke their silence, his voice almost a whisper. Till looked closely to see the other man’s eyes closed, hands gripping at the shirt that hung around Till’s chest. Paul took a deep breath and let out a weary sigh, burying his face against Till’s chest. “I just feel so much better knowing he’s there.”  
  
               “He’s in the best place.” Till reiterated, smiling sadly as he pressed a soft kiss to the other’s forehead. “There’s not a lot we can do now except support him to stay. It’s an open door type place, you know? He can leave at any time.”  
  
               “Do you think he’ll leave though?” Paul asked, slowly budging himself to sit up. He rested on his elbow and looked over Till carefully.  
  
               “I doubt it. He knows its what’s right.” Till smiled. Paul sighs lightly again – unnoticeable if Till hadn’t have been close enough to feel it – and he rested himself back down on the other’s chest. He reached blindly over Till for the cigarettes that sat on the bedside table and placed one between his lips, never lifting his head. He turned slightly to allow himself to light it, only so he didn’t burn Till and then rested back, cigarette between his fingers as he rested, exhaling smoke over Till’s chest.  
  
              “I just hope he’s not an idiot about this.” He held the cigarette up to Till’s lips for him to take a drag before taking it and taking a drag himself. “I want him to get better. I don’t care if the band falls apart because of this… I just want my friend back.”  
  
              There’s something in that last statement that makes Till’s heart hurt a little. “He’ll be fine, Paul. If he leaves, we’ll have to find something else. We’ve just got to support him, that’s all we can do.” He sighed, gently running his hand over the smaller man’s back. “We’ve got to be there to emotionally support him through his recovery. I know I’ve been no help, pressuring him, hurting him, upsetting him. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m part of the reason he’s in this state.”  
  
              Paul sat bolt upright then, staring down at the singer. “Don’t say that please.”  
  
              “Why? I mean I’ve been harder on him than the rest of us. I’m always picking him up out of those places and berating him for his actions. I’ve had such little patience for him. What if I’m part of the problem?”  
  
              “Then we all are, Till.” Paul said softly, pressing a kiss to Till’s lips. “We are all as responsible as each other, but I think the issues surrounding his addiction run far deeper than us. We might not help but I don’t think we’re the root of it.”  
  
              “At least you stopped mothering him so much.” Till added, instantly regretting his choice of words.  
  
              “I was not _mothering_ him. I was being supportive, like a friend should, Till.”  
  
              “I know, I know… I’m sorry.” Till apologized, gently running his fingers over the skin on Paul’s arm. “He’ll be fine though. He’s stronger than we give him credit for. He’ll be okay.”  
  
              “I hope so.” Paul added, slowly resting back to finish smoking his cigarette. He sat up once more the stab out the ashes and moved to straddle Till’s hips, staring down at the singer in silence for a moment. They just sat there, looking at one another, feeling comfortable in one another’s company. Till thought hard, and there weren’t many people he felt so comfortable with. This felt decidedly more intimate than any sex he’d had in his lifetime. Sitting here in a comfortable silence with one person, unable to look away from them felt far more intimate than fucking them without looking them in the eye.  
  
              “I love you, Paul… You know that right?” Till’s voice was soft, and calm, his hands gently feeling their way up Paul’s thighs to his hips. “I don’t say that often, but I do.”  
  
              “You’re such an old sap, you know that, Lindemann.” Paul laughs then, collapsing back next to the other, laughing to himself more than anything.    
  
              “Well that answers my fucking question, doesn’t it.” Till frowns, moving to sit up. The other pulled him back to the bed, and a kiss was planted firmly on his lips. “I’m kidding Till. I love you too.” Paul said softly against his lips, his fingers gently finding their way into Till’s hair. “Please never cut your hair.” Paul said softly, looking up at him.  
  
              “I was thinking of shaving it off.”  
  
              “No. You can’t.” Paul protested, fingers pulling softly at the strands. “It must stay this length forever. No shaving. Leave that to Oliver.” He smiled. They fell silent again. They lay there watching one another for a while, not making any moves to do anything, just holding each other. Paul’s fingers gently wandered through Till’s hair, and Till’s hands held Paul’s body close to him.  
  
              “We made the right decision to put him there, right?”  
  
              “Yes Paul, we did.”  
  
              “He’ll not hate us for this?”  
  
              “He might for a while Paul, but he’ll realise why soon enough.”  
  
              “You’ll never hate me Till, will you?”  
  
              “No Paul, never.”


	5. June 2000

               Was it possible, in the finality of things, for one human being to fully understand the uniqueness and potential that another human being held? ****  
  
               The summer in the city was showing no signs of abating its beauty. Bathed in some perpetual blue and gold from above, every week took on that distinct rose-tinted feel, as though every moment would indefinitely be remembered for its significance years from now. Memories through that high contrast, sepia filter of sunglasses were going to be brought back when needed, in long chats over tall beers in the future. Till sat at a café, reading a column in the newspaper; an opinion on an author of a genre he cared nothing for. But he wanted to appear busy, occupied, almost _threateningly_ so, wanting nothing more than to be left alone to sit outside this quaint little cafe, sipping a cold glass of beer, dog at his feet, paper in hand.   
  
               As he pretends to be interested in the paper, he thought about Paul, and the last few weeks they’d spent together. He sat there and really thought about, attempting to document in an imaginary notepad in his mind, all the things that he knew about Paul. He looked down at his watch and the face read 4PM. He had not spoken to Paul in a little over a week and felt increasingly isolated from him and the rest of the band.   
  
               He turned the page of the newspaper idly and there was a double page spread on _Berlin’s Summer of Love._ There was a claim near the beginning of the article that the summer of love happens once every thirty years or so. They should have had one in 1997 in that case, and Till snorted to himself before turning over, settling back into an article about some political figure who’d said something demeaning about women, or dogs, or whatever everyone was angry about currently.  
  
               On a little more thought, he knew the paper had been right. It was a kind of _Summer of Love_. Well, maybe not _love_ in the sense that he ached for it, the love that he had lost; that Richard searched in vain for; that Paul seemed to offer so freely. But love for each other, what they were doing. He loves what they were doing and where they were. He didn’t, however, love Berlin. The heavy, humid air cloying at his skin, with only the lightest breeze, thick with pollution, giving only the slightest relief; he longed for the cool, crisp country air of Schwerin. He missed his home. Berlin in the height of summer had always been his least favourite place to be.  
  
               But it was nice, right now was nice; sitting in the shade, watching the bustling crowds pass him on the street. Beautiful, young women in the sundresses, their skin turning a beautiful golden brown, hair glistening as it caught in the breeze to reflect the sunlight, blowing around their shoulders with handsome young men trailing after them on bicycles to catch their attention. Yes, the Summer of Love was rife here in Berlin that was certain.  
  
                “Shall we go, Chulo?” he asked, sighing softly as he folded up his newspaper. The dog got to his feet and circled around, ready to move with his master.   
  
               Till decided that the Tiergarten would be nice to wander through, where he can let Chulo off the leash and have a run around before they take the long drive back to the country. He turned down the street and entered the large park in the centre of Berlin, unhooked the lead and watched his pet run off to sniff and snuffle around the path they usually followed when walking with Paul. The dog never strayed too far, never leaving his owners line of sight. It had been such a beautiful day, Till couldn’t help but wish he was walking through the park with Paul.   
  
               Upon their last evening together, it had ended with an argument that felt too much for either of them to really handle. Paul had thrown Till out of his apartment and the two of them hadn’t spoken since. Till had been watching his phone keenly to see if the other would fold first and call or text message him but frankly, that was out of the question. Again, he was brought back to wondering how much he really knew and understood Paul Landers. He was a complicated man, after all, with a complex web of emotions that were difficult to penetrate at the best of times, but were simultaneously worn on his sleeve with such conviction it made Till incredibly jealous. He’d never been able to express himself in the same way that Paul could. Till hid his true feelings behind ambiguous poetry that would take all the literary scholars to break (or so he thought, they weren’t all that complex if you _really read them_ ) but he never just came out and said what was on his mind. And that was part of the problem with their relationship with Richard. Till never outright explained what it was about Richard that upset him most, and what it was about their friendship with him that seemed to be damaging his relationship with Paul. If he truly admitted it to himself, he knew that _he_ was the root cause of the problems in his relationship with Paul but he was damned if he’d let anyone else know that. But how aware was Paul of this? It was one of the many mysteries surrounding the smaller man.  
  
               _What a grand hunting ground this must have been at one time in history._   
  
               His phone began to ring in his pocket as he watched Chulo run off into a bush to sniff around and hunt out anything that might be of interest.   
  
               “Hallo?”  
  
              “ _Ja, Hallo. Ist das Herr Lindemann?”  
  
_                “Yes? Who’s speaking?”  
  
               “ _Good Afternoon, my name is Katrin Muller. I am Richard’s doctor at the clinic.”  
  
_                “Oh yes. Right, how’re things going?” His mind began to burn as he wondered why they were calling. He looked around, unable to see his dog anywhere.  
  
               “ _Well, you see Mr Lindemann, we thought we’d give you a call to give you a brief update on what’s happening with Richard.”  
  
_                The dog was no where to be seen, “Yes? And? How’s he doing?” He asked rather impatiently, covering the microphone with his hand, “Chulo?! Come boy!” he called, frowning.   
  
               “ _Well, you see the thing is Mr Lind-…”  
  
_                “Chulo!” He whistled.  
  
               “ _Is this a bad time? I can call back later?”  
  
_                Chulo came bounding back out of a dense patch of bushes, and relief washed over Till. Chulo was an expensive dog and there had been a spate of dogs being stolen in the parks around Berlin recently. He bent down to hook the lead back onto Chulo’s spiked collar when a shadow appeared over him. “No, no… I’m sorry I just thought my dog had run off.”  
  
               “ _Oh, well okay then. You see the thing is, Richard checked himself out this morning and is heading back to New York as we speak.”  
  
_                “What?” He looked up to see Paul standing in front of him. “Why didn’t you keep hold of him?”  
  
               “ _This is a voluntary facility, Mr Lindemann. Unfortunately we cannot force our residents to stay.”  
  
_                “Thank you for telling me. And I’m sure you did your best with him. Thanks for your call.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but hung up, staring down at Paul once he’d stood up. “Richard checked out. He’s gone back to New York.”  
  
               Paul stared blankly at him for a moment, before turning to walk away.  
  
               “Paul, wait.”  
  
               “I have to go Till. I’ve got to get this guitar fixed. We’ve got practice in two weeks, by the way. You’re expected to be there.”  
  
               “Meet me this evening then, for a drink.” Till took hold of Paul’s free hand, gently running his thumb over the back of it. “Please, we need to talk about a lot of stuff.”  
  
              “Fine. Fine, just… Let go of my hand, okay. We don’t need that in the press, yeah?” He frowned, snatching his hand away. “Meet me outside Café Cinema on Rosenthaler Straße, I’ll be there around eight. I’m not happy with you generally Till, so be warned.”  
  
               Till sighs, watching Paul go before being pulled onwards by Chulo.  
  
               As he walked, he considered more why he needed to win Paul back. He had to admit to himself, he’d not been the most perfect partner for anyone. He’d always felt a small faction of failure in his first marriage, and even though through that train wreck he’d been given the greatest gift he’d ever received in his life, he knew he was less than perfect for her. He knew he was the cause of Paul’s bad dreams, his anxieties about relationships and love. He’d been divorced once before and Till did nothing to allay his fears of abandonment. He knew he managed to break the most loyal friend he’d ever had, and that, in itself, demanded addressing.  
  
               And really, Paul had been nothing but patient with him, Till knew this. He’d spent hours patching him up whenever their shows got out of hand, months coaxing him out of himself when they’d finished touring, spending days at the farm house to alleviate some of the pressures Till put on himself, the depression that pulled him down into the darkness. As he walked through the park he thought back, back over their time together and tried to think of the positive things that  _he_  had brought to their relationship. There weren’t many, and there were even fewer that held a deep and significant meaning to their lives. All the meaningful things that had happened between them had been Paul; had been his actions, and his words, and his love. Till hadn’t done enough. No wonder Paul was so angry. Maybe this thing with Richard was the straw that broke the camel’s back?  
  
               When they first met, Till could never figure out what it was about Paul that had drawn him in. Was it his mop of blonde hair, pulled up on top of his head in a top of his head in a knot, tied up in a piece of bungee cord? Or maybe it was the terrible clothes that the 80s told everyone was _high fashion_ and yet they were just plain hideous? He didn’t think it was, but it might have been that infectious smile Paul had? Paul always had this smile that invited anyone within his reach into him and allowed him or her to feel comfort in his presence; it felt like being at home.  
  
               He remembered when they’d first met, and how Paul had  _broken into his house_ to perform a concert in Schwerin with Feeling B. The party had never meant to have that many people, but with Feeling B came lots of people. He remembered being a bit star-struck as Paul, Flake and Aljoscha walked into his house. He’d always been a fan of Feeling B and for them to just waltz into his house and put on a show, it was fairly fantastic.  
  
               But that’s where it all began. Their friendship blossomed. Paul spent countless weekends in Schwerin, claiming he loved the peace of the countryside without  _actually_ experiencing the countryside, and then he kissed Till. Right in the car. Right on the mouth.  
  
               But their bliss wasn’t destined to last, and their new-relationship glow burned off even quicker than either of them had wanted. But he remembered falling in love with Paul very, very quickly. He’d descended almost into an obsession immediately with the younger man and wanted to spend every waking moment with him. However, he had always been aware that the hotter a romance had burned, the quicker it consumed and destroyed everything they had. And with Paul, it had burned out all too quickly.  
  
               But they’d continued on, powered through their lust for one another fizzling out and leaving a dull, aching pain in the pit of the bellies, a kind of pining for one another. But they had never officially ended. There had never been any  _closure_  in their romance, and that was the reason the two of them had continued in this kind of sick, emotionally sadistic relationship, hating one another without really ending things and parting but being so desperate for one another.  
  
               They became incredibly destructive; of themselves and one another. The amount of drugs and alcohol in their relationship only poured more fuel onto the fire that consumed them. As Till walked under the shade of a rather large tree, he was taken back to a little room after a show one night, in the privacy of their closest friends. They had felt no reason to hide their affection for one another, and as Till saw the look on Paul’s face, it explained so many things.   
  
                _I just don’t think… Just… I cannot deal with very much today._  
  
               It was whispered, more out of exhaustion than secrecy, sounding somewhat defeated. The pair of them were completely exhausted. They sat and watched the others interact with their friends, their relatives. Till remembered wrapping his arms around Paul and letting him rest his head against his chest. He remembered Paul’s skin being freezing, quite uncharacteristic of Paul, even stranger given the humidity of the room they sat in from the amount of bodies. He remembered lacing his fingers through Paul’s and rubbing the back of the other’s hand with his thumb.  
  
                 _We just need sleep. That’s all we need. Tour will be over soon and we’ll be okay._  
  
               _Can we go back upstairs please? I can’t be here anymore._  
  
                _Sure. Let’s go._  
  
               When they got to their room, Paul set about making a spliff for the two of them, sitting at the desk in the room and carefully rolling up the papers to make a perfectly formed joint. The more he thought back on it, it was a surprise more of them hadn’t ended up in Richard’s position. It was constant, never ending, and he remembered throwing down a bag of Cocaine onto the table in front of Paul as he went about getting changed. The room was silent. There was no exchange between them at all, other than Till’s hand gently brushing against Paul’s shoulder when he walked past. He knew then that they were coming to some sort of end. He knew that Paul was falling more dramatically out of love with him each day but he wasn’t certain why. Maybe it was the exhaustion of just  _everything_  getting on top of them, which could be fixed by going home and spending time alone. Maybe it was just that they weren’t a forever, that this was only a temporary thing. It hurt to think about that but it might have been for the best.  
  
               Paul lit one of the spliffs, and handed it to Till, then placed the other between his lips, and began cutting up some lines.  
  
                _I thought you were tired?_  
  
                _I’m fine._  
  
                _It’s not going to help you sleep. Just stick with weed tonight._  
  
                _Then why did you put it on the table?_  
  
               From the look on Paul’s face, he knew he was in no mood for an argument, and quite frankly, neither was Till. He nodded and sat down on the bed, watching the other. There was a hesitation in Paul before he bent forward, then sat back up.  
  
                _No you’re right. Tomorrow. Tomorrow…_  
  
               Paul got to his feet and lit the spliff between his lips, crawling up the bed and collapsed.  
  
                _I love you, Heiko._  
  
               That was greeted with silence.  
  
                _No remarks? No ‘it’s only you and my parents who call me that? Nothing? An ‘I love you too, Dietrich’?_  
  
               That, at least got a laugh from him.  
  
                _What the fuck are you doing?_  He asked, giving a slight laugh that was somewhere between amusement and numbness, but he laughed weakly at Till’s mock-accent nonetheless; the voice he did whenever he impersonated Paul.  
  
                _I’m trying to tell you that I love you._ Till placed the spliff down on the side and moved himself to straddle Paul’s body, resting above him on all fours.  _And you respond to me with silence?_  Till tried to make a joke of it but he knew the silence meant more than empty words. He knew then, as he knew now, what it meant; it marked the end of their bliss; it was to be an uphill struggle from this point on. He moved in, gently pressing his lips to Paul’s, the gentle caress of lips against one another to send a soft surge of lust heading straight for Till’s groin. His hands follow the softness of Paul’s skin, gently feeling their way to removing his clothes.  
  
               _No. Till, not now, please._  
  
               He stopped immediately and sat up.  
  
                _Oh._  
  
                _I just don’t want anyone to touch me right now. I’m sorry._  
  
                _Paul, you realise we haven’t had sex in…_  he thought for a moment,  _weeks?_  
  
                _A week and a half, it’s not that long..._  
  
                _Then what the fuck Paul? Don’t you want to be with me? Don’t you love me anymore?_  
  
                _Till, why don’t you get off my dick?!_ This was something Paul had said many times in their arguments. He wasn’t sure where Paul had picked up the phrase, but he remembered wanting to laugh the first time he’d said it. But he also remembered being too angry and hurt to do anything else.  
  
                _No! Fucking tell me why you don’t love me?_  
  
                _This is why! This is the reason because you go off the deep end every time someone turns you down! If you can’t get what you fucking want then you throw all your toys out of the pram! You’re like a spoilt fucking child!_  
  
                 _That’s not true!_  
  
                _Isn’t it? Look at you now! I don’t want you to put your fucking dick in me this evening and you’re demanding to know why I don’t love you! Jesus fucking Christ Till will it ever fucking end?_  
  
                _So you don’t love me?_  
  
                _This is exactly what I’m talking about!_ He shouted.  _You just can’t be like this! I can’t live like this! I’m done! Till, I am done!_  
  
               He left the room and left Till on his own to brood on his anger. But that wasn’t the end of it. They carried on for a long time after, kept going; kept hating one another; kept trying to be some kind of a couple.  
  
               It wasn’t healthy and hadn’t been for a very long time.  
  
               Before he realised, the sun had hidden itself behind a cloud and a chill passed over him, causing him to shudder. He looked down at his dog and sighed, taking himself home. He had a lot of making up to do.  


* * *

  
  
                Paul sat silently in front of him, staring down into his half emptied glass, the amber liquid swirling around the bottom as he moved the glass on the table-top.  
  
               “I’ve missed you, Paul.” Till piped up, and instantly regretted his decision to be so open.  
  
               “Yeah.” Paul responded, not raising his eyes  
  
               Café Cinema was almost empty, save themselves and a couple of others, drinking in the dark. The music plays softly in the background, and it was something like The Smiths, or some other soppy British band that sung about being sad all the time. He looked at Paul in the soft lighting and slowly reached over for his hand, taking it in his. He felt so oddly uncomfortable and acutely aware that they were being watched by the few who were with them. He felt that the girls behind the bar were talking about them, watching and observing, but he needed to focus his attention on Paul, He needed to fix this.  
  
               “Paul, tell me what it is.” Till said softly, pushing his drink aside. “Please, I want to try and be better for you. Please.”  
  
               He was silent for a moment, as if he was trying to gather his thoughts, but his body language was immediately insistent that he was uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be in public. He didn’t want to have this conversation. It was all very obvious.  
  
               Till had always found Paul to be an interesting character, more so than the other members of his band. He’d studied his behavior so intensely over the years that he didn’t think there was a little idiosyncrasy that Paul had he didn’t know about. He had a mental list as long as his arm of the things he found mildly amusing about Paul Landers. Naturally, his obsession with Paul only got worse once they started dating, or seeing each other, or sleeping together, whatever it was they were doing. It was this list of things that made Till aware of Paul’s emotions without having to ask about them. He wore his heart on his sleeve and Till knew it.  
  
               And yet here he was, staring blankly into a half-empty glass of beer, vacant expression on his face; lights on, nobody home. While Paul was so expressive, usually, he was a complete enigma.   
  
               “I just don’t think I can keep on like this anymore.” Paul said softly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, bringing his beer back in front of him, a physical barrier between the two of them. He pulled his hand from Till’s and wrapped all his fingers around the glass, occupying his hands.  
  
               “What can’t you keep on with anymore?” Till asked calmly, knowing the worst was yet to come. He knew he had to make all of this up to Paul.  
  
               “Us.” He said quite pointedly. “I can’t do  _this_  anymore.” He motioned at the space between them, at them, “I can’t do it anymore.”  
  
               “Why not?” Till asked, sitting forward in his chair, moving himself closer to the other. “Please… I want to fix this.”  
  
               “I don’t.” Paul said softly. “I don’t want to fix it. I just want everything to go back to how it was before and I want to move on with my life and be the person I was before all this…” he paused, searching for the right term for their relationship. “… Shit between us started.”  
  
               _Wow, that definitely stings a little._  
  
                “It can’t go back though, Paul. We’re in too deep for that.”  
  
               “Then we’ll just have to cut ties and keep moving forward. Keep our relationship strictly professional.” He said, shaking his head. “I can’t go back to you, Till. You’ve hurt me more times than  _anyone_ I’ve dated in my life. I refuse to let you do it again.”  
  
               “But what if I promise to never hurt you again.” He said.  
  
               “That’s the emptiest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Paul drained his glass, and Till knew he was right. He didn’t mean it and he couldn’t promise it. That was not something he could guarantee would happen in the future. Till, after all, didn’t have the best track record, even with Paul.  
  
               “You promised me that far too many times.” Paul got to his feet and put on his jacket. “So this is it. I’ll go and see Richard on my own, in New York. I’ll try to find out why he left and what was going on with him and let you know. Otherwise I don’t want to see you until practice in a weeks time.”  
  
             “Paul, wait.” Till frowned, reaching out to take hold of what he was about to lose. “Stop it, sit back down.” The imperative tone of his voice did nothing to persuade Paul to do as he was told. “Please. Sit, please.”  
  
               “I’m leaving now.”  
  
               “What if I weaved you the house of willow?” Till called, watching Paul make his way to the door, the few patrons of the bar turning to watch the mini drama unfolding before them. This drama unfolding was too much for them to ignore and they needed to see what would happen. Till had hoped, in the most manipulative way that Paul would be pressured to come back and sit down by the people watching, but he knew better than to think Paul would give in.  
  
               “Till, that’s just another promise you failed to keep. See you in a week with everyone else.” Paul called, leaving Till there in the darkness, surrounded by strangers, feeling incredibly lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very much like the last but hopefully it'll become increasingly better from this point on. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me while I've been an idiot about all of this and reuploaded it multiple times.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. As always; comments, concerns and criticisms are always welcome here or on tumblr <3


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